The Grantham Arms
by kouw
Summary: When the past catches up with the present, it isn't always easy to deal with its consequences. Alternate Universe fic, almost spoiler free, includes a very proper Butler and a very different role for the person we normally know as Housekeeper Elsie Hughes. Will often not be safe for work.
1. Prologue

**A/N:** Happy New Year, everybody! A new year usually means new beginnings and as we all know canon sometimes throws us for a loop. This fic is _mostly_ spoiler free, but please do read at your own risk. This will be an alternate universe fic, based on the 'Elsie Hughes Madam' tumblr.

Reviews are very much appreciated, so please don't hesitate!

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><p>"I loved her…" he says, his voice shaking and tears are running down his cheeks onto soft, creamy skin.<p>

"Of course you did," she soothes, her fingers combing through his hair, her lips on his brow, pulling him a little closer. She is warm, she smells lovely of vanilla. Her hair is long, dark and wavy; a mahogany tinge in the light of the candles she's lit and the fire that is burning bright.

"I wanted to be with her, I wanted…" More tears follow, his throat feels tight, the words hurt as he speaks them.

"You wanted to marry her," her brogue is thick, her thighs are warm as he lies between them, holding on to her, her hand in his, trying to keep him grounded and steady.

"So much I could taste it," he confesses and he can't do anything then but sob.

She lets him, doesn't push him to perform - not that he is up to it anyway.

"She doesn't know what she's thrown away. You're a good man, a caring man. You'd... " she pauses to wipe away his tears from the valley between her breasts with a pristine handkerchief. "You'd have taken great care of her, looked after her. Loved her. Her choosing another is her loss, do not forget."

He tries to hold in the wail he can feel bubbling up, managing to keep it restrained to a strangled cry.

"It's been fifteen minutes…" she then whispers. "I'm afraid if you want more…"

He nods. He can afford her time and he doubts she'd cheat him. Of course he has little experience, but this one - he's not even asked her name; he simply chose her from a small line-up for her kind eyes and petite hands - he feels can be trusted.

He lays his head on the softness of her breast and lets her lull him into a feeling of safety and calm. It's worth the three shillings and thruppence*.

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><p>* In 1882 three shillings and thruppence (three-and-six) would be about $50 today and would buy you 15 minutes with a lady in a not-too-exclusive place. Yes. I cleaned my browser history after writing this chapter. And as always: Thank you so much, Dee, for being an awesome beta who never gives up on me and my quaint way of expressing myself!<p> 


	2. In the land of the blind

**A/N:** Thank you everybody for your support! It's been a tiny prologue but the actual story starts now and I hope you'll enjoy it. Let me know what you think! As always a big 'thank you' to Dee - though I am posting without running it by her after adding and changing. If you see mistakes, send me a PM!

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><p>He doesn't like it. Of course there is nothing he can do and as long as Mr Travis doesn't do anything about it - seeing he is the vicar - there isn't much he can say either. But he strongly feels <em>Mrs Hughes<em> doesn't belong in their church on Sunday morning.

For a brief moment his thoughts linger on how Mrs Hughes is definitely all woman. Even if she is wearing a modest dress that more than covers her, even though she is wearing a practical hat and neat gloves. Even though nobody would _know_ about her if they didn't live in the village.

If only she weren't so notorious.

There are house parties where the male guests come up to him - discreet in their own way - and ask for directions, ask if he knows the general fares (and he is ashamed to know he does, embarrassed that his lads whisper about it disregarding his advice). Though his Lordship loves his wife, and Charles is certain he does, even he visits the Grantham Arms.

Charles never does.

He warns every new lad that comes through his pantry against the attraction of the Grantham Arms, warns about the French disease, about the cost of something that ought to be sacred between husband and wife.

The rosy cheeks of Elsie Hughes on a winter's morning filling his mind, the shapely silhouette before his mind's eye. He balls his fists, lays a table for twenty to settle himself again, save himself from the sound of his blood rushing in his ears. Knowing that he'll be seeing her in an hour makes him uneasy. Has done for the past years.

Too many years to count.

He always has the same breakfast on Sundays: porridge, toast, two rashers of bacon, a sausage and scrambled eggs. He's not once changed it. Besides his evening sherry now and then it's the only treat he allows himself.

Unlike most men. Especially during the Season. London is filled with Music Halls and gambling houses, pubs and dog races. Pretty girls and easy girls. Expensive girls in decadently decorated rooms, filthy girls on the corner of the street.

He can't stop his lads, only himself and anyway: he doesn't feel the need to engage in casual relationships in exchange for money and The Clap*.

There is too much shame in his past to be adding to it in Dr Clarkson's office. Grigg. Alice. His hot tears on the softest skin he's ever felt (and never has again).

He pushes his eggs around his plate, refuses to look at the others until he hears the clock chime.

"Look sharp!"

The scraping of chair legs over the tiles, hurried whispers, shuffling feet.

He sighs. The walk over to the church will be pleasant, but he knows that once he is inside he'll be distracted from his prayers and penitent thoughts by the knowledge she is sitting in the back, unassuming, minding her own business.

It's been almost forty years. And he's not worshipped in peace since.

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><p>Footsteps on the stairs, hoarse well-wishes, the sound of breakfast being dished up: Elsie is familiar with the routine of Sunday morning. She loves and loathes the day - or the morning at least. She likes that she doesn't have a full house to manage and she loathes that nobody will so much as wish her a good day in church. She glances at the clock. Fifteen minutes until she has to get going. She is wearing a very proper and respectable skirt-and-jacket, her hair done up neatly (and it will be covered with a modest hat in a bit). Thick stockings don't show much of her ankles, her calves half obscured by the length of her skirt.<p>

There is no need to offend the good people of the village any further. She smirks at the thought of those _good_ people. She's been in this trade for over forty years - thankfully she didn't start as young as many she's seen waste away from the clap or the French disease - and in those years she's transformed from an 'unfortunate woman' to a 'pro skirt' and she's always been looked down on.

Comes with the job, she knows. She is aware of her accomplishments - she manages a house that hosts nine girls (up to twelve when there is a large party at the big house to accommodate the guests) and she makes a very good living selling a commodity anyone could get at home.

Or maybe not. She's given up on wondering why people come to her or her place.

She's never adopted the common title to go by, had always hung on to her own name, so the knock on her door is accompanied by "Mrs Hughes, breakfast is ready!" instead of "Madame Yvonne" (or Suzette or any other stage name that usually comes with the position) and she actually likes it that way. It gives her an air of respectability.

She is not at all respectable of course, though she only spreads her legs for the most exclusive clientele and hasn't done so in three months now. She only does it for those who come specifically to see her. Who sometimes write to make an appointment. Her job these days is showing off her girls - her charges. She has a lovely diverse set of girls - an English rose, a milkmaid, a skinny little girl who remains fifteen forever (or for the past seven years at least and she wasn't exactly fifteen when she came to Elsie's house of pleasure). There's a girl with long raven hair, a freckled redhead and even two or three 'plain Janes' for the men who are afraid of the pretty ones.

Which is more common than you'd think.

And then there are the men who long for something more substantial than just the average up-and-down. Those who look for a bit of exotic pleasure. There's a young man she can call upon when written in advance about what's being fancied - tall and lean with kind eyes to be buggered or to be watched with another man's wife or mistress. There's a girl who specialises in a bit of spanking and tying the men up, another girl who enjoys sipping from the furry cup (and having the man watch).

There's a lot to be earned from the watchers anyway. And since she's fully licensed she does make a fair bit from the men who come in and have to drink their courage - or who do and never manage to get further than the bar.

She welcomes the men as they come through the door, discreetly sizes them up (or down) and lines up her girls. She always knows what the man wants. She always knows why. She's always been good at that, from the time she was nineteen years old and she'd spent a year and a half whoring in Glasgow and Manchester and a good half year in York before she had accepted the offer of Madame Elvira and had relocated to the small village of Downton.

After about six weeks of testing the waters, she had decided she liked being in a small community. There had been girls who had 'regulars' and they even got proposals - married the men who paid for them*. Elsie had not immediately gotten her regulars - though at one point there had been a young man who had cried at her breast (he wasn't the first and he wouldn't be the last by far) and she had thought that perhaps she'd see more of him. He was nice, kind. A bit stiff perhaps.

Elsie Hughes is well aware why this man never returned to her - or the establishment.

He avoids her as much as he possibly can. Whilst she welcomes a fair amount of staff from Downton Abbey - the house of the Earl of Grantham, who is a gentleman with standards but also with a friendly countenance and a soft heart - the Butler has never visited.

She only sees him in church and oddly at the Post Office. He buys his stamps in bulk - she doesn't. But she doesn't have anyone to write: she buys the stamps for her sister who likes to write to Father Christmas and God and a host of historical figures, including Henry the Eighth. He gives her no more than a glance then and she sees something flickering in his eyes, sees something in the twitch of his lip. It annoys her that she can see the desire of a common-or-garden john in seventeen seconds flat, but that after forty years she's still not grasped Mr Charles Carson's.

"Mrs Hughes? Your tea is getting cold!"

Elsie checks the calculations and closes her ledger. She gets up, checks herself in the mirror and goes into the dining room to enjoy Ivy's scramble, toast and sausages.

She has half an hour before facing the congregation.

It never gets any easier.

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><p>* The Clap = gonnorhea aka The Drip<p>

* Yes, this actually happened quite a lot! With numbers as high is 1 in 5 women in London being in the sex trade in the 1880s, it was a surprisingly common way to bags a husband. And syphilis.


	3. A beautiful noise

**A/N:** Thank you all so much for your support - I am well aware this is a very odd take on things and that it's a little out there, even for an AU, so: thank you. Now, this chapter will be heavy on the Elsie and rather light on the Charles and if you are a bit tender hearted, you may want to tread carefully. I'd say it's NSFW, and not in the way you might be used to from/in my fics. I would also like to take this opportunity to tell you all that in the end all will probably be well.

Thank you, Dee, for beta magic, you are a star.

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><p>It's a busy night; the sounds of men talking and the smell of their cigars mingle in the air. Questions, requests, line ups. Choices made, payments made, and now it's just a question of waiting. Lord Grantham is having a house party and she is expecting one of his guests. A gentleman of her own age with 'particular' tastes.<p>

Which aren't all that particular, but she is loath to tell him. Unlacing a corset and being allowed to take the pins from an old-fashioned coiffure hardly register as anything terribly 'out there'. He likes to call her 'Maggie' and for the money he is willing to pay she is very willing to pretend. He is careful, never leaves a mark and the last two visits he's not been able to perform. Not that it matters. She doesn't miss it: the groping and grunting with half an eye on the clock. Spurring on those who start slow, putting on a show of trilling and moaning. It's an act and she is a star player, but she is tired of it, really. Every day is the same, the men come with their needs (and there is nothing she's not seen, not heard, not done by now) and every day she locks the door behind the last customer and goes to bed having nobody to mull the day over with. And perhaps the men are tired of her too.

Her body isn't what it was. She's in fairly good shape, lucky to have managed to stave off the most common killers (the French disease, consumption*, pregnancy) and she still wears her corset - though it's no longer fashionable; the boyish shape is all the rage now, but Elsie doesn't feel a need to flatten her bust or her hips, she is happy to show her womanly figure. Somehow it makes her feel safe. In charge. Nobody touches her without her express consent (this goes for her girls too. She teaches them how to defend themselves, how to fight, how to call for help if needed). Her girls wear whatever is asked of them and there are young men falling in love with them, returning more and more often until they pop the question and take them away from the Grantham Arms.

Elsie's mind briefly touches on her proposals - two. From the same man. Someone she had 'known' in Argyll as a young lass. Fifteen she was when she ran off with him, believing he would give her something - something that life on the farm couldn't. But he had wanted just that: a wife to help him during harvest time and lambing.

She could see it then: run ragged, twice pregnant by the time she was seventeen. Joe's farm wasn't the prosperous operation her father ran. So she declined and traveled and one thing led to another. Joe sought her out, just before the war. Still a nice man. She had let him shag her - reduced price. He had asked again, had said he didn't care about her past.

But she knew that in Argyll she was even more notorious than here in Downton and while Joe was nice, it wasn't enough. She ran a business. A damn profitable one and she was not giving up her independence to go back to mucking out stables and canning.

(She had run into Mr Carson at the Post Office as she contemplated the offer. He had asked her how she was and quaintly she had told him the story, rather bowled over by this uncharacteristic interest in her - for years he had not said as much as a 'hello, how are you doing' and here he was, looking her straight in the eye, quite concerned. He had been easy to talk to, had made her smile when he asked if Joe was red-faced and even given her a smile before hastily turning away, embarrassed.)

"Ahem... He's here, Mrs Hughes," a quiet voice says and Elsie is shaken from her maudlin.

"Thank you, Phyllis."

Phyllis Baxter. Too soft spoken, too gentle for this trade but remarkably resilient and strong. She doesn't speak much and never engages in the more rowdy conversations around the breakfast table. An acquired taste with her lithe frame and dark hair, strong features and soft eyes.

A little older. Good for the shy and the first timers, for those with gentle hearts.

"I'll see to him now. If there's anything, you can ask Thomas to deal with it. Or wait it out. I'll be an hour, an hour and a half at most," she commands and she walks straight to Lord Flintshire who looks more tan, more rested, less hurt and tired.

She shakes his hand. "Mrs Hughes," he greets her and she nods.

He engages in small talk, briefly speaks about being back from India, about his daughter having married. She leads him up the stairs, through the corridor. The sounds of people 'making the beast with two backs' are not quite drowned out by the noise from downstairs and the closed doors.

Her room is all the way in the back (the most popular girls have their rooms close to the stairs - Elsie's room is used mostly to actually sleep in these days) and she makes sure to put a bit of sway in her hips, to touch her hair.

Inside her room - spacious, not too warm, clean, neat, tidy - money is exchanged quickly without questions asked. Lord Flintshire takes off his coat and his shoes and comes to stand before her. Elsie undoes his flies, does her regular checks, a bit of a clean - just in case. But Lord Flintshire is one of those very clean men, someone who takes care of himself and he's never once visited her looking like the rough ones she learnt her trade from way back when.

He knows the rules, doesn't make her uncomfortable by displaying unnecessary 'masculine' behaviour. He is patient and knows what he wants and knows he'll get it. So she gets up from the floor - her knees clicking slightly - and starts to undress slowly, giving him time to get rid of his clothes too. She isn't truly giving him a show (it's not what he cares for much) and she waits for him to get on the bed before joining him.

She is on her knees, facing the wall and she can feel his warmth against the back of her thighs. His hands tremble as he unties the laces of her corset (pulled so much tighter than her regular one, pushing up her breasts almost painfully) and she allows herself to breathe deeply as he carefully loosens the pressure. His fingertips run just over the edge, over her shift. An old-fashioned chemise that leaves her skin with red creases where it's been wrinkled.

He doesn't ask her to turn and face him. She pushes the busk of the frilly satin corset (so unlike the one she normally wears under her day dresses) together and lets the garment fall on the floor. Waits for him to pull the pins from her hair and his fingers still tremble.

"Are you alright, Milord?"

He sighs, his hands land on her shoulders. His fingers are cold, the palms slightly clammy.

"Yes. It's strange being at a house party as a newly divorced man. A lot of people I thought were friends are barely saying 'hello' to me."

"I imagine that must be very difficult for you."

"It's good to be here, Mrs Hughes."

"We're always happy to welcome you, sir," Elsie says. She's comforted many men over the years (and she always thinks of the first man who cried in her arms, that broken, shamed, hurting man who was so beautiful as he let go in a way she had never seen before). Lord Flintshire is easy to console.

"I'm glad."

She has still not turned around and his hand slides from her shoulder to her waist, starts to caress her. He kisses the base of her neck, pulls pins in earnest now, sometimes slowly, something a little roughly. She can withstand the sharp pain of hair being yanked out.

He palms her bottom through her underwear (more old fashioned garments - with bows and ribbons and a slit for convenience).

His lips on her bottom after he unties one ribbon, then two, her underwear sliding down and she sighs - normally to entice the one behind her, this time she is simply letting go of air that's been building up since she's thought of that young man - an older man now, one who tries to ignore her but fails. The way she fails to stop thinking of him.

As Lord Flintshire pants and the sound of his bullocks slapping against her arse fill the room, she thinks about the tasks she wants to get done tomorrow - filling out the ledger, counting the money, checking with the laundry about the satin sheets she's sent out last week but hasn't had back yet.

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><p>"If Lord Grantham asks, I'll be back in an hour and a half or so," Shrimpie Flintshire presses a pound into Charles's hand.<p>

"Very good, Milord," he responds, pretending the transaction didn't happen. House parties come with tips like this one. A pound here, a few shillings there.

At least Lord Flintshire is being discreet about where he is going, unlike some of the younger men who are being entertained this weekend with copious suppers, the very best of wines, cards, a bit of shooting. They don't know the rules. They've not been brought up in a time taking up with a 'lady of the night' was as common as visiting the theatre, but Charles wishes at least they didn't make him part of their barely veiled secret assignations, discussed in front of others, of his lads standing to attention in the library and drawing room, unseen but not deaf.

Lord Grantham keeps his visits to the Grantham Arms to a minimum and only when her Ladyship is away in London. It's a betrayal - a married man, a happily married man, going off to enjoy the pleasures of the flesh elsewhere whilst it could be had in his own room. He will never understand it.

If Charles had a wife, he'd shower her in attention, would tenderly love her and show her the depth of his joy in her. He could have had that with Alice, if Grigg had not stolen her away (he can hear a soft Scottish lilt telling him it was Alice's loss, that he would have made a good husband and he still believes it after all these years: he would make a good husband if he were ever given the chance. Had Alice not been so easily persuaded - but it's not Alice he sees before him, but another woman with flawless creamy skin, long waving hair and high cheekbones, the one he tries not to see in real life and never manages to block from sight).

Charles nods curtly. Lord Flintshire doesn't insult him by asking him to keep his secret. He holds the door and watches the man walk into the dark evening. The door of the library opens and Mr Molesley steps through with a tray filled with empty glasses and full ashtrays.

Mr Molesley, who will have his afternoon off tomorrow and Charles doesn't have to guess where he'll be going. Recently Mrs Hughes has - at times- been accompanied by a slender, sad-looking woman. Mr Molesley has been making eyes at her. He's had to call him in and give him a stern talking-to.

Talking to Mr Molesley had reminded him of the same talk he had had with William Mason. He had called the lad into his pantry on a September afternoon, sat him down. The boy had been in love with Daisy, the kitchen maid who bore the brunt of Mrs Patmore's fiery temper. He had hopes of marrying her, of setting up house, perhaps taking over the farm when his parents were no longer able.

Service was something his mother wanted for him - he had not been so very dedicated, though he worked hard and was a quick and willing student. William told him that he'd been to the Grantham Arms once, to learn 'how it's done'.

The boy grew up on a farm.

_How it's done_, for heaven's sake.

He had sent William out of his pantry, unable to continue the conversation. Mr Molesley had been easier to speak to, even though it had had absolutely no effect at all. Except on himself - as the years go by and he finds himself standing in line at the Post Office and she approaches him. He can smell the vanilla and he has trouble keeping his mind on the stamps he requires. Finds it difficult not to think about how Mrs Hughes would be so easy to talk to, someone who would take him seriously, wouldn't think him ridiculous perhaps.

His thoughts keep returning to her, to this woman he knows without knowing.

The sole witness of his shame.

He wonders if she sees other men shaming themselves - besides the obvious. Wonders if her Lord Flintshire is visiting. Wonders if he'll notice the creamy silk of her skin, the warmth of her lips, the steady beating of her heart under his ear…

He shouldn't be thinking this. It was long ago and in a sense far away. He was young, broken. He is older now, mature. Steady. Most of the time. He sighs and straightens himself, pulls at his waistcoat, goes into the different rooms, supervises the footmen, orders the maids about (Mrs Bute is capable, but they're not friendly, merely respectful. He'd once hoped to share the burdens of running this grand house with someone who would be his equal and who would _understand_ him. His mind kept going to Mrs Hughes and how she might share the leftover wine, might pick a bit at a piece of stilton, would tease him about his high standards and his inability to truly move with the times) and uncorks bottles of wine and champagne.

He is thankful when the last of the guests has either gone up or out - following Lord Flintshire's lead no doubt.

Lord Flintshire who is looking very content.

Charles cannot bear to think that the man's hands have been on _her_. Have touched the same smooth skin. That he has kissed her perhaps. That he's… Charles shakes his head violently. He doesn't want to imagine her with anyone else.

She is the only one he's ever touched in that way. He doesn't want that memory sullied by thoughts of another man being held the same way she has held him, cared for him in that moment. Consoled him. Soothed his fractured heart and planted a seed of something in it.

Something he doesn't want to address, but that has been growing steadily - planting strong roots and is starting to flower. He would yank at the branches, the curling stems and pull them out, like he has done the past decades, but he is tired of fighting it.

As he climbs the stairs, he asks himself if he would dare to let it bloom.

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><p>* Consumption aka tuberculosis was a very common killer, especially amongst prostitutes - think of Fantine in Les Miserables for instance<p>

According to sources (including the (in)famous Dr Lombroso - so I can't be sure how reliable the sources are) the most common way for women to end up in the sex trade was by running off with a boy, then they got dumped and had no place to go or ways of supporting themselves.


	4. I sit and watch

**A/N:** Today's chapter is the other way around: we're going a little heavy on the Charles and a little lighter on the Elsie. I love it when things balance out like this. No warnings today, just Charles and Elsie and the story getting up to speed. I hope you'll all enjoy the chapter and don't hesitate to leave me a review.

Deedee: thank you for not taking your hiatus through to the max and for teaching me so many things about verbs and about being supportive. You are very special to me.

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><p>Time passes quickly. Shooting parties, Christmas, the Servants' Ball. He is rather tired and he thinks that is why he reacts the way he does. He is tired and he isn't heartless (even if he has to hide it away, has to forget he has one and that once it beat warmly for a woman, hotly even and she is dragging all of it up) and she is looking so distressed, he just can't bear it.<p>

A telegram is crumpled in her hand, tears glistening in her eyes - but never spilling. Like him she hides her heart away. He supposes it comes with her profession too. Don't let them see you care (though she had that one time and it's left such a lasting impression that it's her he thinks of when the night is too long and the strain too much and he touches himself into release; when he is wracked with guilt and disappointment in his lack of restraint) and she is wearing a skirt and jacket, looking every inch a lady. Nobody would ever know she isn't.

He ponders what 'lady' really means and how beautiful she is even when she's obviously had bad news. She stumbles and he reaches out and catches her. Her hand is in his, small and gloved. She blushes. Prettily. He lets go almost immediately, not a lingering touch to remember later. She wipes the wrinkles from her skirt and thrusts the telegram into her handbag.

"Are you alright, Mrs Hughes?" he asks and she frowns. Surprised he's asked, perhaps - as is he.

"I've just had word my sister has passed away," she tells him and she worries her lip with her teeth, looking vulnerable and sorrowful.

"I am very sorry for your loss." He bows his head, says more lines that have been part of his Victorian upbringing, when mourning was an artform. The words are mechanical, inadequate.

"Thank you, Mr Carson, that is very kind of you." Her words come in a tone of wonder; the way she rolls her R's is as if she's just stepped off the train from Scotland. She is enchanting, even after all these years.

"You mustn't stand out here in the cold, you'll catch a chill," he fusses and she smiles at him.

"I'm warm enough, Mr Carson, but thank you for your concern."

"If there is anything I can do?"

He doesn't know why he is offering his services to a woman he shouldn't be seen with.

"No. She'll be buried and they'll send me an invoice, which I'll pay and that will be it. Then I'll be…" Her voice trails off and he doesn't know what she was going to say, but he thinks it must have been 'all alone' from the way she stares forlornly into the distance.

"Scotland must feel very far away for you now, can't you make it in time?"

"She doesn't live in Scotland. Didn't, I mean. She lived in Lytham St Anne's, by the sea. For her health. I sent them money every month for her safe keeping."

He doesn't want to pry and he senses Mrs Hughes doesn't like to talk about it any more. So he bows again. Nods, doesn't know what to say, feels odd leaving her standing there in the middle of the pavement in front of the Post Office.

"Are you certain you'll be alright?"

She shrugs. "It's early still. I have time to pull myself together and it's slow anyway with the weather being what it is and me losing so many of my girls. It's time for me to pack it in, Mr Carson. Retire, move away and start a new life; I am young enough to enjoy a few more years of calm and peace."

Now it is his turn to frown. Her easy words push him off balance.

"But where will you go?"

"I'm not sure. The South maybe. Or London. It is easier to be anonymous in a big crowd."

"Won't you get lonely?"

She tilts her head (she is so charming; her movements lack the studied gracefulness he associates with... with women like her) and licks her lips before answering.

"I imagine I will be. I've never lived alone before. But perhaps the silence will suit me."

The scent of vanilla hits him when she adjusts her scarf, heady and exotic.

"I can sometimes long for silence," he confesses. "Silence, but perhaps not solitude."

"Why don't you join me for a cup of tea, Mr Carson? You are looking a little flustered."

"Oh, erm… yes. Yes, that would be…"

And she turns and he follows her and he doesn't understand why, only knows that he can't refuse her direct invitation, can't resist the promise of a quiet moment out of the house, with her. Before her working day starts. Before he has to close his mind to the ways she makes her living.

The street is nearly empty as they walk towards the Grantham Arms and he has to resist the temptation of taking her elbow, of steadying her. He knows she must be dreadfully unhappy: aren't whores supposed to be known for their big hearts, for their enormous capacity for affection? Or is that just a way of looking upon them condescendingly, a way of putting them down, giving them traits so celebrated in fine, 'upstanding' women and twisting them so they turn childish and unimportant?

She pushes open the door after unlocking and he follows her.

He hopes nobody has seen him, but he finds it difficult to focus on that.

It's the second time in his life he has set foot in this establishment and he finds nothing much has changed. He is flooded with memories of her with every corner they turn. The house is quiet now; a few windows are open to air the rooms, and he can only faintly smell the smoke of cigars and the oaky scent of spilled whiskey.

"I've recently bought an electrical toaster, would you like a slice?"

She is all business as she takes off her hat, her coat, her scarf, all before he can even offer his help. Her brisk but elegant movements mesmerise him.

"Well? I'm having some, if that makes the decision easier."

Her eyes twinkle.

"Aren't you afraid you'll burn down the house?"

The words escape him. She unbalances him, with her eyeroll and her teasing smile, her stylish hair, her corset-clad figure.

He knows the skin under her corset, her chemise. Knows it's pale and pure, softer than satin, richer than cream. Knows she smells of vanilla - exotic and sweet, but with a hint of lemon: clean and strangely wholesome.

"I've not done it before, but if it happens I promise you'll get to ring the gong in the hall to wake the girls."

She motions for him to take off his coat and she hangs it neatly on the coatrack. There are five other coats - from stylish and expensive to sensible and thrifty.

"Where are they, your... erm..."

Had she been the housekeeper, he would have said 'maids', but she isn't. He cannot bear to say 'whores' though.

"The girls? Most of them will be sleeping still. Only Miss Baxter will be up. She's an excellent seamstress and trying to find work in a dressmaker's shop. Or maybe as a lady's maid. Anything really."

She has pointed out a place for him to sit, at the end of a long table and she busies herself with the kettle and toaster.

"I don't blame her," she suddenly picks up where she left off, "It's not for everyone. Phyllis Baxter is kind, caring. A little fragile. She is one of those women who could have had a husband and children, had fate not dealt her a rotten hand."

The whistle blows and she pours some steaming water in the pot, swirls it about, throws it out in the sink. She puts in three spoonfuls of tea from a pretty tin (oh good St George but she is pretty herself, with her sure movements and the swishing of her skirts). She places slices of bread in the toaster, twists the dial.

"And you, Mrs Hughes? Did fate give you a bad deal?"

He is curious, wants to know, needs to know why she is here: a Scotswoman in a small Yorkshire village, well-known for the services she provides.

"Not so very bad. We all make our choices, Mr Carson and we must live with the consequences."

"You've not wanted a husband? Children? The life you seem to have in mind for Miss Baxter."

She turns around and looks at him with an expression he cannot place.

"Only once," she says after a long pause.

She pours tea, puts his toast on a plate. "Jam I think, not honey."

He nods, pleased she has guessed correctly.

* * *

><p>She isn't used to having a man in the house who isn't there to get his leg over. He sits there, quietly sipping his tea, asking questions, making conversation without making her feel uneasy. Oh, he is a little bit ridiculous in his assumptions and like all the men she's met he is prejudiced about her chosen profession, but so far he's not offered to save her (or one of her girls) and he eats his toast as if he were quite at home.<p>

This house has never really been her home, it's just a place she's worked most of her life and she owns it, but she sleeps in a bed she conducts her business in, where she's had to scrub men's essence* from the walls. Thankfully that's been a while.

"Are you alright?"

His voice rumbles and it makes her smile.

"I am."

"You really don't want to be there for your sister's funeral?"

She looks away then; the care in his eyes is too much. She isn't used to men who want to know how she feels, what she thinks. They come in to 'have a good time,' not to worry about those they use for that. And it is using. There are few women who enjoy being verbally humiliated, or physically hurt. She's not cared for that at least. In the past there have been encounters that have been enjoyable, but those have been few and far between.

Would it be pleasurable with Charles Carson?

She can't tell. She is a little surprised at that; normally she can tell what a man wants from a girl within two minutes. Doesn't even need to talk to them. It's a game she plays in church. Knows that Mr Drewe, the farmer, likes it when the woman is on top, does all the work.

Mr Travis wants to be spanked. Quite hard. Lord Grantham likes to be in charge, so he's moved on from Elsie to this dark-haired, light-eyed girl who is happy he has chosen her, even grateful, who uses the money he pays to put her child through school. Mr Molesley is in love with Miss Baxter and when he comes to the Grantham Arms to be with her, he pays for her time, but doesn't lay a finger on her, or himself. He likes to talk to her; he is just an up-and-down man, not adventurous, just someone who would seek comfort and safety in the union.

But Mr Carson is a mystery.

He touches her wrist with a shy hand and she looks back at him then, remembering his question.

"I would like to go to the funeral…"

"Why don't you? You'll always regret it if you stay here."

She swallows hard.

"You are very kind, Mr Carson."

He picks up his cup again, sips. When he puts it down again, the clock strikes and he starts.

"I should be getting on."

She pushes back her chair, helps him with his coat - it feels strangely homely. Nice. It feels good to see him take off dressed neatly.

When he steps through the door, he doesn't turn around, but walks towards the Abbey with his back straight and his head held high.

He is very handsome.

* * *

><p>* Yes, this is what they called men's semen. Spunk. Wad. Cum. Spooge. Jizz. Seed. Whatever. Aren't you glad to be getting this education?<p> 


	5. Wings to test

**A/N:** Thank you everybody for your wonderful support. Today's chapter will start off a little bit brutal, but that pain will be eased by fluff at the end. Please let me know what you think!

Thank you, Dee, for beta'ing and for discussing all the lovely things with me and for finding me 'lovely' euphemisms.

* * *

><p>She lies back and exaggerates her moaning and panting, ignoring the filth her current paying customer is spouting. Dirty, cruel words, sentences strung together tightly and spat out in anger as he pounds away with no regard for her at all. She could be anyone. Anyone could be the fantasy woman this man is humiliating. It's just that she is charging by the quarter-hour and she knows it will be over in seven minutes. Tops. But she is thankful for the bottle of flaxseed oil* she keeps by the bed and that she's been generous with it before this man yanked her knickers off and started to thrust without preamble.<p>

He is grunting now and she is looking at him, his face contorted, sweat dripping down his forehead and she finds she cannot conjure up the image of that young man she loved (was it even love? probably not, but it could have been, had he returned to her), to the man who has touched her wrist two weeks ago.

Her john reaches his climax, swearing loudly, pulls out, turns his back and gets dressed. He doesn't speak to her at all now. He leaves her another five pounds* on the nightstand, shrugs and goes through the door. Elsie lies back, closes her eyes for a moment. She is tired. Not so much from the pounding, but because it's three o'clock in the morning, because she has been up since eight, because she is going on sixty and her back isn't what it was (and she bites back a smile while she thinks it's her own fault, with her work being conducted mostly lying down).

This morning, when the house was quiet and she was airing the rooms, she came to the conclusion that it would be best for her to retire. To sell the house, the furniture, take her savings and find a nice little cottage. Now that the millionaire's seed is dripping from her onto the sheets, she is certain it's the right thing to do. She'll go somewhere new, where they don't know her. A small cottage will do her nicely. She'll be quite comfortable and she'll be left in peace. She'll only have to send her own things to the laundry, will not have to fill out ledgers to keep track of her girls' earnings.

Tea and toast in the morning without the smell of stale perfume.

She'll not see him again then.

The thought makes her sad. It's silly, really. She hardly knows him (but she does, his gentle touch, the way his voice rumbles, the way he is always guarded and she knows that he can look straight through her. He may not always understand and he may sometimes be knocked off balance by her, but somehow he is the only one she's ever known who knows her) but the thought of forever leaving him behind makes tears well up in her eyes.

She shakes her head then and carefully sits up. She checks herself for bruises, gets off the bed, pulls off the sheets, the mattress cover, dumps them in the hamper in the corner, swiftly pulls clean sheets from the cupboard, makes the bed, pulls the corners tight.

She undresses in front of the mirror: her torn knickers (to be discarded, they can't be saved), her camisole and her brassiere - all worn because he requested more modern attire than her usual corset. Her hair falls over her shoulders and she sees the light smattering of freckles on her arms and over her breasts. There is a bruise on her right thigh, where she's just been pushed down, into the mattress.

She didn't even notice that he was so forceful; her mind was on other things.

She sighs. Leans to pick up the wet cloth in the wash bowl and cleans herself thoroughly.

* * *

><p>He pours away the last of the wine: it's spoiled. The room too warm, too many cigars being smoked. His coat and hair reek of ash and drink. The last of the guests has gone up, it's three o'clock in the morning and he is tired. He's been up and at it since seven o'clock this morning and all he wants is to sleep. He wants to get out of these tight clothes that stifle him, wash the day off and close his eyes.<p>

The guests have been so loud this night he couldn't even hear himself think. Normally when things become a little too loud, too brash, he thinks of the young woman who held him close. The woman who made him tea and toast some ten days ago and talked to him. And who listened.

He doesn't get that a lot: to talk so freely, to be heard that way. He dishes out commands and they are followed, but he's not had a conversation like he's had with Mrs Hughes since…

He can't remember when.

The wine colours the sink a deep burgundy red and his mind whirls as fast as the liquid chasing itself down the drain. If she weren't a… a… well… that, he could court her. He could take her out to tea, give her flowers - roses maybe, he could write to her during the Season. But she is… that, and there is nothing to be done about it.

He is Butler to the Earl of Grantham; it's a good position. But he is sixty-six and his knees creak and his back aches after a long day (his shoulder clicks as he pulls the decanter back). If he were to retire, he could…

No, he couldn't. He can't think of her like that. He can't be with her when she shares her body with others. The thought of Lord Flintshire touching her perfect skin, of witnessing the perfect roundness of her curves already made him angry and uncomfortable and Flintshire is a perfectly pleasant person.

He absolutely cannot think of the men who visit Mrs Hughes who are less than gentlemen. Who are crude and who might hurt her. Who don't understand they are privileged to come near her.

He sighs.

* * *

><p>Weeks pass and the Grantham Arms feels quieter already. Miss Baxter has left - a good reference (professionally faked by Mrs Hughes) to help her on her way and Mr Molesley faithfully by her side, like a golden retriever by the hand that feeds it.<p>

Jane is gone; Elsie doesn't much care where. A nondescript girl never leaves a lasting impression. There are only two girls left and Elsie only has three more visitors in her appointment book. In as many days. Tonight she'll see to a thirty-something Army official who likes to do the Russian*.

Why he chooses her is a mystery to Elsie as she isn't particularly buxom. But it doesn't matter much, as long as he pays (and he will, handsomely). Then there's the one who wanks at the sight of her washing her feet. And finally, on Friday, she'll be spanking a seventy-year-old magistrate while he cries for his Nanny.

And when he has left, she'll send off the last of her girls and do away with the red plush, the heavy mahogany and she'll open all the windows against each other, giving the place an airing it's never had before.

* * *

><p>"Mrs Hughes." He tips his hat at her and she smiles. She has a basket with some shopping: bread, apples, flowers. A bottle of elderflower wine.<p>

"Mr Carson." Her smile is enchanting.

He doesn't know what to say; his heart is suddenly racing. His mouth feels dry and his hands are clammy.

"What a lovely day," she says then and he agrees quickly.

"You are shopping, I see." He indicates her basket and she smiles again.

"Just a few things for lunch. It's taking some getting used to, having lunch on my own."

"Why are you on your own? Aren't your… girls… with you?"

She shakes her head, the sunlight catching in the auburn strands. "I've waved the last one off the day three days ago."

He looks at her quizzically, can feel how his eyebrows are knitting together in confusion and she lets out a little laugh, bright and gentle.

"As of the day before yesterday, Mr Carson, I'm a woman of leisure. Or rather: retired. All the rooms in the Grantham Arms are empty."

"You've… you've retired?"

He can't quite wrap his head around it.

"Yes, Mr Carson. I'm surprised you'd not heard it yet. I'm quite respectable now."

Her teasing is making it impossible to think clearly. If she is retired… if she is - as she puts it herself: respectable, he could… but… would she even want him around? Would she not be irritated? Because he has seen the other side of this sweet smile, when she's lashed out, been irritable, harsh even.

Of course he is still Butler to the Earl of Grantham.

But she is just Mrs Hughes now. Or perhaps that's not even her real name and he doesn't know if maybe there is a Mr Hughes. Or has been. He actually knows almost nothing about her, except that she knows exactly what to say to him to calm him and simply being near her makes him feel better.

She is waiting for him to speak and he clears his throat.

"Shall I carry your basket, Mrs Hughes? It must be heavy."

She nods and he is pleased to see a faint flush colouring her cheeks.

He's never seen anyone more lovely, he thinks and he takes a deep breath.

"Where to, Mrs Hughes?"

* * *

><p>* Flaxseed oil was easy to come by, cheap and got the job done<p>

* Five pounds is £250 ($380 or €325) in new money

* Doing the Russian is a 'titty-fuck', or 'doing the Spanish' when you're in Italy. In French it's called 'une cravate de notaire' and in Britain you can order a Bombay Roll off the menu (I don't even know, guys and I am sorry I am corrupting you all like this - but then again: you're all past the age of consent. Right? Right.)


	6. Everything's a little clearer in the

**A/N:** Thank you all so much for your wonderful reviews and your amazing support throughout this, I cannot tell you how much I appreciate your kindness and thoughtfulness. Thank you, Dee, for being lovely as always and for praising my semicolons.

As always: reviews are appreciated. I really hope you'll enjoy this almost-NSFW chapter!

* * *

><p>The house looks different. Feels different. The heavy curtains have gone; the windows are open. The naughty etchings have left only outlines of frames on the walls. There's not a hint of stale perfume lingering in the air and the big, bulky furniture is all gone.<p>

She has put her basket on the kitchen counter and is putting away her shopping. She fills a vase with water, places her flowers in it, steps back to check the result, pulls at some stems until she is satisfied.

"I never got the opportunity to ask you if you did go to your sister's funeral in the end," he asks.

"Yes, I did go and you were absolutely right: I'd never have forgiven myself otherwise." She steps back to admire her work and it's easy for him to forget what she is. What she was. He finds himself thinking of her simply as a woman, not _what she was_. He doesn't understand why. He has always been so careful to maintain a proper image, to show himself off as someone who is morally incorruptible.

Perhaps it is because she is being unapologetic. Because she is not referring to it at all and she is just bustling about her kitchen, like any ordinary woman might. Not that she is ordinary, mind. She could never be ordinary. She exudes confidence and she is radiantly beautiful.

A small voice in the back of his head whispers words to him he tries to shake off:

_Beauty is in the eye of the beholder._

"Would you care for some lunch? It won't be what you're used to up in the big house, but I can slice you a lovely slice."

He nods, a little shaken from his thoughts of her. "Yes, please," he says, his voice a little louder than he had intended and he sees a little frown flit over her delicate features. She changes the subject then, makes easy conversation.

"Is it your afternoon off?"

He nods, smiles. "The first in a few weeks. Thought the sunshine would do me good."

"And now you are sitting inside again. Really, you should have told me you were going for a walk."

She is slicing bread and cheese, makes quick work of making the sandwiches, neatly plates them. She twists the cap* off the bottle of elderflower wine and hands it to him. He fills the two glasses that are before him on the table, the fruity fragrance filling his nose. Summer is on the doorstep; he can feel it in the way the sun streams through the clean windows, the way the warmth soothes his aching muscles.

She takes her glass from him, accidentally touching his hand with the tips of her fingers. Soft skin on soft skin, taking him back to that one night so very long ago. She always transports him back there; she only needs to tilt her head just so, to roll those R's.

She pushes his plate towards him and urges him to eat. They speak easily - through his nerves that are subsiding now - smile, laugh even. He is never this comfortable with anyone else and he wonders if she feels it too.

That somehow they are always drawn together.

Maybe belong together even.

Silence falls then and she is studying him, frowning, tilting her head and she is so pretty and she is all he wants. She knows him, is the only one he's ever felt safe with, comfortable with. Even though she was a… Well. She isn't anymore. And the past is in the past.

He's not really felt that before, but if she can break away from what she did, maybe he can break away from his shameful past. Maybe he too can put things behind him. He isn't quite sure what _things_ may be, but it's not important now. What's important is that she is asking him questions and his answers fall from his lips uninhibited. That she soothes him in ways previously unknown to him.

It matters that he has never felt like he belongs and that she changes that simply by being present.

They have finished their sandwiches and she pours them another glass of wine. The sweet perfume of elderflower mingles with the vanilla (not as prominent as before) and lemon.

"Would you like to see the house?" she asks and it is a curious question. She pushes back her chair and gets up and he follows her out the kitchen and through room after empty room. He hardly glanced into the 'parlour' the last time he was here, but things are so different now. Big rooms, empty and white, with high ceilings. Plain green curtains frame the windows. Sunshine falls on the wooden floors.

"As soon as they get the down payment together, I'll be leaving," she says and he has to take a deep breath before he can answer, for fear of saying all the wrong things.

"You know the people buying?"

He did not know she was selling - or did he? He is confused. Overwhelmed by a sense of dread. He wants to pull her to him, keep her close, whisper - no, shout - that she cannot leave.

"Yes, one of my former girls and her husband. They've always wanted to run an inn. A plain one."

It's clear what she means by 'plain.'

"Maybe they'll raise some children here. That would be good."

He makes a noncommittal sound. She opens another door, shows him another room. Stands beside him, points out into the garden: bird's nests in trees, apple blossoms, freshly cut grass. Her hand slips into his.

She turns to him then, looks at him a little shyly. Then she looks away, stares at the floor and he cannot think. He can't think for the touch of her hand, for the vulnerable curve of her neck, for her closeness.

She looks up from under her lashes and he can tell it's not a trick. The tip of her tongue strokes over her top lip and finally she speaks:

"Do you want to go up?"

* * *

><p>His still-smooth cheek is warm against hers; the scent of his shaving cream tickles her nose. His hands are on her shoulders, holding on gently. He is breathing in tandem with her. His lips on her temple then, a hand letting go, finding a pin, his voice is incredibly tender when he asks if he can take down her hair.<p>

She can only nod; she doesn't trust her voice. She bends her head, her hands softly gripping his grey jacket and pulling it off, unbuttons his waistcoat, pulls his tie from its perfect windsor. He takes out the pins one by one, carefully, so carefully she hardly notices his movements. When her hair comes down he breathes in sharply.

He cups her cheek then and she cannot look him in the eye.

She is still fully dressed, but she's never felt this naked before.

Instead she helps him with his clothes, kisses the curve where his shoulder meets his arm, brushes a small scar there with the tip of her nose.

His fingers flutter over buttons as he undoes them and the bodice of her dress falls down her arms. He stares at her as she frees herself from the practical, rather outdated garment.

The sunlight catches on the fastenings of her corset, on her hair as it falls over her shoulder and chest. He runs the back of his fingers over the long strands with languid movements. He murmurs something, she can't quite make it out, but it's a compliment, a kindness and it's been long since she's heard one of those; her body for sale was nothing but a product, something to be purchased for fifteen minutes, an hour at most and kindness didn't come into play.

He reaches for her and she extends her hand. Then her hand is in his and he lifts it, kisses the inside of her wrist reverently.

From the corner of her eye she sees the white muslin curtain floating in the breeze, the smell of him mingling with that of the abundant apple blossoms from the trees that grow in the garden. Her bed is neatly made with white sheets and pillowcases.

It looks almost like a marriage bed, the bed a girl slips into the first time her husband teaches her what he expects from her.

Charles traces an invisible line from her wrist to the inside of her elbow, kisses her and she runs her free hand through his hair until he comes close to her face and she kisses his brow and finally - good god _finally_ - his lips find hers.

His kiss is sweet and sure, his arm sliding around her waist, pulling her a little closer. His lips are supple; his warmth radiates through his clothes and hers. They kiss and kiss and she's not been kissed like this, not ever.

So fervently and respectfully.

So lovingly.

His hands are sliding over the sides of her corset and she is having more trouble breathing until he finds the laces, pulls them free and unties them.

She'll not ask how he knows. She normally never asked much about a man's history - had preferred to remain detached from her paying customers. But with Charles it's different: she wants to know about him, wants to learn his stories, but not this very moment. Right now she would rather be swept up in the moment, in this haze of tranquility and softness. Her heart is beating fast with expectation and happy wondering.

She strokes the soft hair from his temples with the tips of her fingers. Her heart is beating fast, her breathing is irregular and she can't think when she felt that way last: overcome with desire. He looks at her so warmly, touches her with such respect. Helps her step out of her dress, escorts her to the bed, where he kneels to help her with her shoes.

Sunshine highlights the far corner of the room and a flock of birds twittering adds to the feeling of a perfect day and here he is, his hand running over her stockings, unclasping her garters. Carefully he slides first one, then the other stocking down. His bare hands on her legs make her breath hitch. He fidgets with the closings of her corset and she puts her hands over his fingers, guides him in setting her free.

She leans forward, kisses him again and again, helps him off with his shirt. His knees creak a little when he gets up from the floor but she doesn't mind - her own shoulders click, her ankle isn't what it was either.

He toes off his shoes, drops his trousers, lays them over the back of the chair that stands beside the bed and then he joins her.

He deftly gets rid of his socks and she lets out a small laugh: socks are ridiculous garments in this situation. But she now has an unhindered view of him, his strong legs - with surprisingly little hair - and biceps that bulge slightly as he makes himself more comfortable.

She has never thought of men as beautiful before. She has thought of them as money and occasionally as fun, but this man is definitely beautiful and she crawls up to him as he lies upon the covers and straddles his lap. Her knickers are riding up, providing delicious friction and she can't remember the last time she was so ready to _be_ with a man without the aid of the bottle of oil she used to keep by her bedside.

His fingertips draw circles on the insides of her wrists before gently taking them in his hands and softly pulling her to him and kissing her again.

She could be like this forever.

To be cherished.

To be held this lovingly when everything is good between them.

* * *

><p>* screw caps were patented on 6 Aug 1872 and I chose a cap like this for the elderflower wine because I've never seen a bottle that's been stoppered with a cork<p> 


	7. Tea from a seamstress thimble

**A/N:** We've left Charles and Elsie on the bed wearing nothing but their skivvies. I think we can all do the maths here… Hope you'll enjoy. As always: thank you Dee for all your help, you are amazing. This chapter is a bit shorter, but I hope you - lovely reader - won't hesitate to review!

* * *

><p>His heart is beating steadily; she can feel it under the palm of her hand. His vest is well-worn and soft to her touch. She pulls the covers from where they've been tucked under the mattress and slides from his lap onto the pristine white sheet. There's some scrambling involved and she is surprised when she feels a little pat on her bum as she wriggles under the bedclothes. She is quite startled by that and looks around to find a little quirky smile on Charles Carson's lips that makes her laugh freely, lightly.<p>

He joins her under the covers, lifts the wide strap of her chemise, kisses her collarbone and she closes her eyes. She clasps her hands behind his neck and pulls him to her, on top of her, hungry for more kisses, for his touch. He raises the hem of her shift then; her skin is slightly ticklish and she holds back giggles that are almost escaping her. The palm of his hand is warm over her navel, the start of her breastbone. He cups her breast then, and she sighs.

"Am I hurting you?" he asks and she shakes her head.

"No… not at all. You are lovely…" she says quietly and sits up a bit to remove the last of her clothing: her chemise falls from the bed, her knickers end up at the foot end. She grabs his vest then and pulls it over his head and presses herself against him.

His skin is soft and warm and wonderful and he slips his arms around her, kisses her again and again and again, stoking the flames that are building inside her. He shimmies out of his shorts and finally they are together.

Naked.

Perfect.

She doesn't think about her altered body or his; she only delights in his scent, his touch, his warmth and she welcomes his weight on top of her. His lips travel from hers to the dip between her collarbones, over her breastbone to one breast first, then the other. Soft nips and kisses, his tongue darting out to touch the peak of her nipple.

She holds her breath, lets him lavish her in attention (so different from the men who have visited her bed in the past, for the first time in her life this is about her as much as him, this is not a business transaction. This is what poetry is made of, lovesongs, those new flicker-shows* in the bioscopes).

He is no innocent and she did not expect him to be, but there are times he falters, when his confidence leaves him for the tiniest moment and she guides him then. She takes his hand, presses it onto her breast with a little more force than he would himself. Pushes it over her ribs, the plane of her belly, to the neatly trimmed curls. More kisses, open mouthed and hot. Words whispered about beauty and fate and devotion.

His hands on her hips as he crawls further under the covers, kisses a path from her navel down. She pushes her bottom down into the mattress, finds herself breathing hard, panting almost. Her legs part almost of their own accord and she can feel him smile against her skin; his breath dances warmly over the curls that cover. His fingers are gentle and careful as he touches her, opens her up slowly. Smooth motions of his tongue and lips over soft and slippery skin. Experimental movements that make her moan softly into the empty room.

He raises his head. "Are you alright?"

He sounds so worried and she cannot help but tear up. In all her years working in The Business, she's never once heard someone ask her if she was alright and it's making all the difference.

"Don't cry…" he says and he lies down beside her. She turns to him, her body raging with want.

"Kiss me…" she demands and he kisses her - all mouth and strong tongue, pushing himself over her, his knee between her knees. She lets her legs fall open wide, tilts her pelvis so her mound touches his groin. He groans; his muscles tighten.

"I need… I mean… I'd like… Can I…" His words are helpless utterings of his hot desire for her and she tells him:

"Yes, god, yes. Please. Do…"

She'd like to say more, would like to tell him to take her, to fill the aching void, to - not to make her _whole again_, but perhaps to make her whole for the first time. She expects him to simply enter her, with careless, throwaway movements, but he doesn't. He pulls in his other knee so he is truly between her legs and he lays one hand high on the side of her thigh, pulling it up. He lets his hand slide over the front of her leg, to the inside and over her mound into her curls. Then through the slippery wetness that has gathered. She arches her back as he strokes her nubbin*; it boggles her mind how such a tiny part of her can bring her such amazing pleasure, and that Charles knows exactly where it is.

Very few men over the years have even _tried_ to find that spot.

"You are certain?"

"Shhhh…" she hushes him. She smiles softly at him and nods. She takes a breath and wraps her legs around him.

When he finally takes her, she cries out in pleasure.

_Finally_.

She holds on to him tightly, her mouth pressed against his shoulder as he works towards an unexpected rhythm of shallow and deep strokes, of kisses on her temple and his breathing - more and more laboured - in her ear.

"Yes…" she then lets out.

She doesn't do it on purpose; this is not like the shows she used to put on. She hopes he knows that, hopes that he will understand that this is so very far removed from anything she's ever done before.

Her body is thrumming; all her nerves are on edge. Tears fall from her eyes and he kisses them away. She gives him a smile - soft and genuine. It's not easy to be herself, to be Elsie the woman and not Mrs Hughes the Madam, to react primarily to the sensation of his weight on top of her, his scent in her nose. His kindness - tenderness (his love, really, though she won't name it, not today) are why she is able to move instinctively, let out those gasps and soft cries. He is taking such wonderful care of her, listens to her, reacts to her smallest movements, the softest whimper. He is her _lover_ - not a paying customer - and it makes all the difference. She cups his cheeks, caresses the impossibly soft skin just above his cheekbones.

She wants to say 'I love you', but she can't. Instead she calls him 'my darling,' 'my love,' when he pauses his thrusts and she rolls them over so she sits on top of him, her arms wrapped around her, over her breasts as she moves - for the first time a bit shy about her body. His hands steady her hips. She is going faster and faster, chasing that feeling of completion, of the perfect alignment of stars and planets. Of a thundering storm after a stifling day.

He is jerking a bit and she knows he is holding back.

"It's alright…" she says, her voice soft and throaty. "You can let go…"

She puts her hands on his chest and tilts her hips. Her eyes flutter closed again and his hands are at her breasts.

"Oh, Elsie…" he mumbles, pushes into her hard, three times, four. He stills then and she holds onto him, rides him only that much further until she falls over the precipice, forwards, into his waiting arms.

* * *

><p>"Don't go yet, please?"<p>

His emotions bubble just under the surface and spill when he hears her shy request, mumbled into the crook of his neck and he finds he cannot answer her. Instead he pulls her even closer, swallows hard, once, twice.

"Sleep..." He manages to croak and he can feel her smile and nod. Her body is supple and he can feel sleep overtaking her. The sun still shines brightly and falls just on the bed, casting highlights and shadows on the sheet and their bodies under it.

He never wants to leave.

He wants to hold on to her soft, naked body forever, wants to press his skin fully against hers, wants to get tangled in her long hair. He doesn't ever want to let her go. Her breath has evened out and her scent has changed from vanilla and lemon to something he cannot distinguish, but it's heady and sultry. He breathes in deeply and closes his eyes. He's not expected back at the house until later tonight. If he is in time to lock up, it's good enough.

* * *

><p>* Everybody, be thankful you don't live in the Victorian era when there were hardly any euphemisms for 'clitoris' except 'the boy in the boat' and this one: 'nubbin' because they didn't quite believe ladies had one and if they did they recommended horrible things to be done to it. Let's not dwell on that...<p>

* Early slang for a movie was a "flicker-show", because early film projectors had a rather large advance time between frames, in which a shutter obstructs the light source. We've shortened that to 'flicks'. (Pssst… JSYK: 'movie' comes from 'moving picture')


	8. It has a language of its own

**A/N:** Thank you everybody for being so supportive and amazing. You are lovely.

Now… brace yourselves: this is where things are going to be bumpy. Thank you, Dee, for never giving up on my poor grammar and my awkward spelling and for being so supportive. This fic would suck without you.

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><p>He can feel she is awake; the soft suppleness of sleep has been replaced with held-back twitches and determinedly quiet breathing. He pulls her close, his eyes still closed and she drapes herself half over him, her kisses soft and sweet, her hand sliding through his chest hair. Her naked breast is pressed against him. Her cheek, her lips, the side of her neck - everything tastes of salt and vanilla. The scent of her hair is in his nose (lemon and heliotrope), the tresses smooth between his fingers, her back so soft, her bottom firm, fitting perfectly in his hand.<p>

He's never before slept in the nude and it's strange how her body feels so perfect against his. It's not just that he now _knows_ her that makes him feel close to her; it's the vulnerable act of sleeping. Of being away from the world together and finding it again in the freckles on her collarbones and in her staggeringly clear eyes. He thinks of poetry, of art, wants to tell her beautiful things - but his stomach grumbles and she laughs.

"A big man like you needs to be looked after properly," she says and she sits up. He opens his eyes and watches her leave the bed, find her robe (white with red embroidery). Her hair falls down to her waist in dark waves; the light plays over the highlights of silver and gold. She moves elegantly through the room, almost like a dancer on her bare feet. He stares at her, at how exquisite she is: her strong, toned legs, her breasts partially obscured by the robe, her … well. That. There. That place of perfect homecoming, covered in soft, springy, auburn curls.

"Are you not coming?" she asks and he scrambles up, tries to locate his clothes. She waits for him by the small desk that looks out over the garden, her robe pulled tight around herself, her arms wrapped around her waist. She sighs heavily.

"What's the matter?"

"Nothing."

He chooses to believe her.

He can't find his socks and follows her down the stairs as barefooted as she is. It's a strange sensation to feel the hardwood floors cool against the soles of his feet. Her hair sways when she turns around; he almost doesn't catch what she's saying:

"I can do you another sandwich?"

He smiles.

"Or soup. Or I could boil some eggs?" She opens every cupboard, goes through the icebox. She is a little nervous; he can see it in her movements, hear it in her voice.

"What would you like?" he asks.

She turns to him, her teeth sinking into her bottom lip. "It's already gone six. You'll have to leave soon."

She is right. He had not thought about it, had not thought that they'd have to part, that he'd have to go back to the Abbey to lock the doors, to guard the silver.

"I have another half day next week," he says, dully.

"But I won't be here next week."

She leans back against the counter and looks at her feet as they peep out from under her robe, the fabric gently swaying, her arms crossed tightly against her middle.

"You'll be gone so soon?"

He can feel his throat constrict halfway through the sentence, choking out the last words.

"I'm leaving tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?" he repeats slowly.

She finally looks up then and there are tears in her eyes. "I've found a cottage in Dorset, near Abbotsbury."

Dorset might as well be India or Egypt. He'd never manage to visit her on his half days, or even if he combined two half days to have a full day.

He finds he's lost his appetite.

"Tomorrow…"

He sees a tear fall on the floor and he is with her in two steps. He gathers her into his arms and holds her close.

She is shaking.

* * *

><p>"Let's go back to bed…" he whispers and she nods.<p>

She's not hungry - probably won't be for a good while. They make their way back upstairs, to the unmade bed and they curl up, skin to skin. She breathes his scent in deeply, knowing it might be the last chance she'll ever have.

She doesn't want to think that she is losing him the day they've found each other. She doesn't want to think about her cottage far away on the south coast. She doesn't want to think that this man will go back to being a Butler and that she is just a woman now - a woman of independent means. The cottage was supposed to be her chance at making a home for herself and now she knows:

It will never be a home if he isn't there.

She is cold, so cold.

She wraps herself around him, pulls him in, kisses him deeply, the taste of her tears mingling with his and he holds her so tight she can feel his thumbprints on her hips. She claws at him, marking him when he takes her. She holds on so tight, this last time, this farewell. She can't bear to look at him, can only hear his desperate grunts, her own panting moans and the sun is lowering much too quickly.

When she comes (violently, shuddering, hard) she cries out brokenly. Unwilling to let him go, she wraps her legs around his waist, presses her face into the softness of his upper arm. He lets her, holds her, keeping himself upright on a shaking elbow until she gives in and he pulls her on top of him, covers her with the sheet and blanket and there is such raw, bitter pain, she doesn't know how to give it a voice.

So she remains quiet and still until the church bells chime nine o'clock.

She rolls off him, his seed leaking onto her inner thigh and she doesn't wipe it away, leaves it be - she'll take care of it later; this isn't the first time she's been covered in a man's essence. She watches him dress - buttoning his shirt, tying his shoelaces - and she puts her robe on, follows him silently as he goes down the stairs.

She helps him with his coat, brushes off dust and lint, fixes his tie (she resolutely pushes away the thought of a housewife getting her husband ready for work). He has his hat in his hand and they stand in the hall, not a word uttered between them since he called her name in the throes of passion.

He kisses her tears away, wipes her cheeks dry with tender thumbs.

"Write to me…" she manages to tell him as she stands in the doorway and he is on the front step.

"Promise me you'll write…"

He promises.

She watches him leave, his tread heavy; twilight makes way for the night.

* * *

><p>He locks up mechanically. He closes curtains, blows out forgotten candles. He checks the locks and makes his way upstairs.<p>

His heart is beating heavily, painfully and all he can think of is her. He can smell her on his person - all woman and lemon and vanilla. He can hear her voice ringing in his ears (_breathy moans of yes, please, god… and tearful whispers of promise you'll write_).

His collar is too tight; he almost can't breathe. He pulls it off, not minding the button, not caring about creasing it. He sheds his clothing with urgent, yanking, careless movements. He doesn't want to be reminded of that very afternoon when she undressed him, when he lay in her arms, when he felt her body move with his.

When he had come home for the first time in forty years.

And he's lost that home already.

He sits down on the bed, his head heavy in his hands.

A storm is raging inside of him, made of anger and sadness, loss and grief and it finally bursts. He sobs, his hands pressed against his mouth. His body shakes with repressed cries, his heart thundering in his ears and all he can see ahead of him is a lonely life in service until the day he keels over, a silver tea service in his hands.


	9. Those soft words

**A/N:** Thank you everybody. My heart is breaking too for these two goobers. Honestly. What even are they thinking? (hint: they are thinking of each other, almost exclusively)

Thank you, Dee, for being an awesome beta and a kind and caring friend. Thank you everybody for your support and reviews. I try to get back to everybody, but to my guest reviewers I'd like to say: thank you - I am so thrilled with your kind words and encouragement!

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><p>There's only silence. She had expected things to be quiet in her new house, but she had not been prepared for the all-encompassing lack of noise. Oh, there are birds chirping and there's the wind sometimes rattling the shutters. There's a car driving by now and then, but the contrast between her former life - filled with bawdy piano tunes and exaggerated moaning - and this lengthy hush is making her spend too much time trapped inside her own head. The chill that crept into her bones as she lay with Charles that last day in Downton hasn't left her.<p>

He writes to her, twice a week at least. Only then are her fingers warm again. He writes her short little notes telling her he thinks of her. Little bits of gossip, fragments of news. With his well-chosen words he makes her more part of the village than she ever was in person.

She can almost hear his voice when she reads his letters. She can easily imagine him sitting at his desk, composing them (she can see him in a worn leather chair that faintly smells like him and all his things tidied away _just so_, even though she's never set foot inside the Abbey). He writes in bold, clear script that reminds her of the way he made love to her in that tender, full-focused way.

She sighs.

She had looked forward to peace and quiet, had hoped to finally get all that reading in that she wanted, but she had not expected to be quite so bored. Absolutely and completely bored. The house is so easy to tend to; she has everything tidy and neat in fifteen minutes. She sends her laundry out (but not the pillowcase that was on her pillow that long afternoon) and puts it in the wardrobe when it comes back. It takes five minutes at the most.

The walk into town takes her almost twenty minutes and she does her shopping for the week. The grocer and the butcher send young lads on bicycles to deliver her goods. She carries the bread and eggs. In the same basket he carried for her.

She hasn't touched elderflower wine since that day. She cannot stand the flowery, sweet smell now.

She cannot stand the silence either.

The curtains are flowing in the breeze. There are no apple blossoms here, but she thinks in the height of summer the scent of the roses might waft into the room. She can easily imagine the smell mingling with what she knows to be his scent. Shaving cream. Tooth powder. Strong tea.

She misses him so dreadfully; every waking thought is filled with him, with remembering how he touched her skin, kissed her lips, told her how devoted he is to her. His letters are cold comfort, surreal in how she can hear his voice in the written words, but he isn't here. She hears him in her dreams, finds herself waking up with her hand shoved down her drawers, moisture seeping between her fingers.

The memory of his hand in that exact same place makes her touch herself insistently, frantically, chasing that same feeling he gave her. That loving feeling, that sense of absolute completion. That perfect explosion.

At the end she cries out; his name echoes loudly through the room.

It's not the same at all.

* * *

><p>Every single one of them is getting on his nerves. From the new second footman to Lady Grantham: they all interfere with his daydreams of Elsie. Every bell shakes him from his thoughts of her; every knock on his door interrupts him writing his letters to her.<p>

Her letters are absolutely wonderful - he can hear her voice when he reads them. He can still smell her on the shirt he wore that last day. He's not sent it out to be laundered. He cannot bear to lose this minute part of her. He knows the scent will leave the cotton soon, but until then he keeps it under his pillow.

He's not been able to sleep since that day he came home with her voice (quiet and broken as she said 'goodbye') echoing in his ears. He can still feel the firmness of her bottom in the palm of his hand. There are the faint marks of where she's scratched his skin in the midst of their frantic farewell.

He's woken up in the middle of the night, holding on to his… well. It's shameful; it's indecent. But he dreams of her creamy skin, of the perfect bounce of her breasts. Of her riding him, her head thrown back in ecstasy, her hands on his thighs, her skin aglow. He dreams of her soft hands cupping his face as he slid in and out of her slick warmth, her kisses sweet and hungry.

He has no self-control. None. He comes hard into his hand, trying to regulate his breath, trying to hold back her name that is on his lips. He washes his hands, changes his underwear and lies staring into the dark, thoroughly disgusted with himself.

She can't ever know how her letters bring him to the verge of something drastic each time he reads them. Quitting, perhaps. Or something violent. She can't ever know how he longs for her. How deeply he misses her. She had always been within reach. He had heard other men speak of her, of her establishment. He would run into her in town, at the Post Office for instance. But she is at the Dorset coast now and he is going through the motions, only just managing to hold himself together through long days of filling out ledgers and announcing visitors.

He bellows at the hallboys and he's fallen out with the cook twice in two days and he's even been short with his Lordship.

Never before has he thought about leaving this noble household. He's always been happy serving the Crawleys. They are a good family, kind and fair towards their servants. Well-respected by their peers. Lady Grantham is American, which had taken a bit of getting used to, but she learned quickly and she had filled the nursery fast enough.

Three little girls and at long last - at the eleventh hour, one might say - a little boy*. A happy family.

But he isn't happy any longer. In fact, when he looks at himself in the mirror - in the very early morning, when he shaves - he sees dark circles under his eyes. And that will never do. He may have lost his love, but he ought to still have pride in his work. He is an exceptional butler and it's a very good position.

(But it's not being enveloped in welcoming arms, his cheek upon her breast, hearing her heart beat under his ear. It's not elderflower wine and cheese sandwiches on a sunny day. It's not a bed made with fine cotton sheets and the scent of apple blossom in his nose as he kisses her.)

He thinks she may love him too, the way he loves her. He loves the idea of her and he loves who he is when he can touch her. He loves her letters, her words, her dry wit and her practicality. He loves that she is accidentally sentimental. He loves that she knows he is much more sentimental than she is.

He loves her.

And he has lost her.

* * *

><p>"Good morning, Mrs Hughes!"<p>

"Good morning, Fred," she replies. The young man is a cheerful soul. He wears his postman's uniform with pride; his satchel lays flat against his hip. She is the last one on his route and she knows his bag is empty now. She often offers him a cup of tea (which he practically always declines).

"Another letter for you."

She takes it from him, presses the envelope against herself, the paper creasing as it hits the cotton-covered whalebone.

"Always the same handwriting. That's the third one this week and it's only Thursday."

He is a terrible gossip (which she supposes comes with the job), but he is absolutely upfront about it. And he is the only one she speaks to on a regular basis. Oh, she attends church on Sunday and she gets her shopping, but that's different. Fred is different. He is a good lad and he makes her smile.

Her smiles don't come so easily these days.

"Yes... "

She can feel a blush appear and it's the strangest sensation. She cannot recall blushing ever before.

Then again: she has never been in love before. Not like this. With Joe she had been a child and things had spiraled out of control. But she is very much in control now and Charles's letters are a lifeline she cherishes.

"Well. I'll leave you to it then, shall I?"

She nods. "Yes. Thank you, Fred."

"I say, Mrs Hughes, are those letters from your gentleman friend?"

She looks up sharply. Raises her eyebrow.

"Best be off…" Fred says then and hurries down the garden path.

She shakes her head and hooks her little finger under the flap of the envelope, too impatient to go inside for her letter opener.

Her gentleman friend indeed. She scoffs and pulls out the note.

"My dearest darling," it reads and she bites her lip.

Perhaps Fred is right.

Perhaps Charles Carson is her gentleman friend.

_Was_, she thinks bitterly and turns to go inside.

* * *

><p>* With Sarah O'Brien not being employed by the Granthams, there is nobody to let Lady Grantham accidentally slip. Where is O'Brien employed then? Well. I've no doubt there would have been a place for her in The Grantham Arms...<p> 


	10. I sleep to dream

**A/N:** Thank you everybody. It's a bumpy ride, isn't it. At least it's summer where they are…

Thank you to all the guests who review, you are ace. Thank you, Dee. Thank you, FFN for getting your shit together eventually. Everyone thank you, really.

* * *

><p>His letters come from London now. The Season is in full swing. She is getting blow-by-blow accounts of dinner parties, of so-called 'at homes'. He's not taken a moment for himself and she worries about him. His bold script sometimes slants a bit. He writes about being unable to sleep - not because he can't (apparently he's past that stage, and she is thankful), but because there simply isn't time.<p>

She has all the time in the world to sleep now. Whole nights to herself. It's an unexpected luxury to simply go up, undress, slip between the sheets and sleep until morning. Uninterrupted by shouting or moaning. She remembers Sarah O'Brien's riding crop swishing through the air and the smack as it made contact with various parts of her paying customers and Ivy's artfully played 'virgin' act. The noise of the men groaning (Charles had breathed heavily - his back had been slightly damp with perspiration - his voice had been gentle, rolling over her like waves licking at the beach). The fights she had to break up.

After all these weeks she is getting used to the quiet. She tends to her roses, writes her letters. She sometimes hears from Anna and how the refurbishing of the inn is going. She has promised to include a photograph the next time she writes.

Elsie doesn't have a photograph of Charles and she feels silly to ask. But she'd be so pleased to have one. To at least be able to see him. Not in the flesh, but to just remember herself how tall he really is. How proud he stands. His expressive eyebrows and his kind eyes.

Fred has suggested she should have a telephone installed. It's tempting. To be able to call him, to be able to hear his voice. But it's also frightening, because she fears she'd fall apart each time she would have to hang up. Her time is her own, but his is still dictated by Lord Grantham and likely always will be.

Having a telephone would bridge the distance - but only of their voices. She'd still not be able to touch him, to feel his skin under her fingers. She wouldn't be able to kiss him, hold him. She wouldn't be making him a cup of tea, telling him to put on his scarf in the midst of winter when the windows are slick with sheets of ice.

So she doesn't make an appointment with Mr Mills who has the monopoly on party lines in the area.

She just waits for his letters and builds a little wall of words around her heart.

* * *

><p>He cannot remember being this tired. There are more 'at homes' than ever - though he doesn't quite understand how it's possible with all three daughters out and all of them married*, with nurseries being filled at an alarming speed. Master George is home from school, enjoying the attention of his sisters and grandmother.<p>

He's noticed that Lord Grantham has not sought his jollies elsewhere since Elsie has packed up.

He has also noticed that Elsie's letters are perking up slightly. She writes about her roses and that she has a library card now. She speaks of the postman - Fred - and that she is being needled about getting a telephone installed. He loves hearing about her little domestic issues. He likes that she complains about the price of tea going up and that she really has trouble figuring out how to keep her shopping fresh. He loves to hear about her attempts at baking bread (and pastries). Her elated words about managing to make her own vol-au-vents. She's purchased a cookery book and is working her way through it.

Just the kind of persistent behaviour he has come to expect from her. She isn't the type who gives up.

Neither is he, in general. But this is the third night this week he's not slept and he feels practically dead on his feet. He sends his lads (oh, but he is tired, he'd never call them _his lads_ if he weren't) to bed at the earliest possible moment, allowing them at least six hours a night.

Elsie appears before his mind's eye at the most inopportune times. When he is overseeing tea or dinner. She is beautiful, with her long, waving hair falling down her naked back, with the curve of her hip, the dip of her waist.

Or with her hair done up, her dark dress covering her from head to toe, but a glimmer of a smile while she makes him sandwiches.

Lord Grantham has had to shake him from one or two of those dreams.

It's not good for his reputation. He's even been called in for a 'talk' with Lady Grantham, who told him she was worried about him. That he was getting on and that she understood.

He nodded, ashamed that he had allowed his personal feelings to interfere with his work. His work had always been so important to him, but now he finds that he is more interested in the delivery of her letters than that of the wine. He thinks about Elsie Hughes instead of how to lay a table for thirty diplomats. He thinks of how he might take a train to Dorset on his only day off instead of visiting the Imperial War Museum*.

He's lost weight since that day they finally found each other.

He's been unhappy. Not just a nagging little voice in the back of his head - like the forty years before - but a gaping wound that just will not close. It's a pain he's never experienced before, not even when he had lost Alice to Grigg. He's actually come to the conclusion that his pain then had been his pride - dented and trampled upon. He did not love Alice like he loves Elsie.

He could never love anyone as he loves Elsie Hughes.

"I say, Carson," the Dowager Countess exclaims when tea sloshes over the rim of her fragile porcelain cup.

He doesn't know how to respond. His chest feels tight and he can feel the blood drain from his face. Lightheaded, he staggers backwards and feels the steady hands of Mr Branson grasp him around the biceps.

"You should go up, Mr Carson," the Irish revolutionary says.

He nods. In agreement for once.

He should go.

* * *

><p>She waters her roses after tea. According to her book it's the best time. Apparently they 'drink' more after four o'clock. When she read that she smirked, thought of her former establishment and how it would always get slowly more and more crowded as the night fell in.<p>

But she has loosened the laces of her corset a bit and she is wearing light coloured dresses that float in the breeze. She's not wearing shoes nor stockings, the grass soft against the soles of her feet. She'll give them a thorough wash later. It feels good. A bit like when she was a lass on the farm. Before quitting school, before running off. When her life was uncomplicated.

She watches the spray from the can and reflects that her life is uncomplicated now.

No paying off the police. No hostile looks in church to deflect. No monthly doctor's visits. No peacekeeping between girls. No worries that there won't be enough liquor in the bar.

Her only worry these days is that she'll run out of stamps before she can get new ones.

She's not heard from Charles in three days.

They've never left so long between letters before and she is worried. She tells herself he must be swamped with work. The family will be trekking back to Yorkshire soon. Packing is a task for the housekeeper, but he'll be bound to keep an eye on things. She knows he's been having trouble with his lumbago. And all those sleepless nights…

She accidentally spills water over her feet and she lets out a little squeak. As she jumps back she can hear the gate open and close and footsteps crunching on the gravel.

"Hello Fred!" she calls out. "I'd not expected you so late. I'm back here with the roses."

There's no answer, but the footsteps are coming closer. A little slower than usual, but it is late. Perhaps he's had a difficult round. Sometimes the lad has to deliver bad news and it's a close-knit community who likes to share their sorrows with neverending tales of the past.

But when she looks up from her roses (pale pink and fragrant, as she had predicted), it's not Fred who stands before her.

She drops her watering can. Her one hand flies up to her chest, the other trembling over her mouth, and she is weeping - sobbing at the sight of him.

"Well, I'm not Fred…" he says and she laughs through her tears.

"Good god, man…" she manages to say and he sets down his suitcase and he is with her, his arms around her, her face pressed against his shoulder.

* * *

><p>* Why not marry them all off, make them happy (not that marriage is a ticket to happiness. Or happiness can only be reached through marriage) (stop digging, kouw). I'm not JF, I don't revel in people's misery. Much.<p>

* The Imperial War Museum was founded in 1917, and from 1920 through 1924 it was housed in the Crystal Palace at Sydenham Hill. Yupyup. Crystal Palace. It had to happen, yo.


	11. Lyin' by your side so soft and warm

**A/N:** He's come home! He is home, can you believe it? Well. That needs to be celebrated. And how better to celebrate than to break in the new bed? So - prepare for the smuts.

Thank you, Dee. Zauberhafte Zusammenarbeit to the max, like... Booyah. (I am too impatient to wait for a last beta-round...) Thank you everybody for reviewing, you can't know how much I appreciate it!

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><p>He is warm and solid against her; his scent is in her nose, so much stronger than the pillowcase she keeps in her hands when she sleeps. He holds her tight, breathes deeply. He is shaking a bit; she can feel it through the layers of his coat and jacket. She pulls back slightly, looks up into his face. Carefully she lifts his hat from his unruly hair and lets it fall beside her.<p>

His cheeks are warm and she traces the lines by his eyes and the shell of his ear. There are tears in his eyes and she hasn't stopped crying herself, but she cannot be bothered with wiping her tears away. She hasn't time. Hungrily she kisses his lips over and over, her hands clutching his shoulders with still-trembling fingers.

"You're here…" she says, her voice quiet and frayed.

"I'm not too late, am I?" he responds and she shakes her head, smiles through her tears.

He leans in a little and their foreheads touch. Elsie's eyes flutter shut as she answers:

"You're right on time."

* * *

><p>The cottage is sparingly furnished, but he isn't paying much attention. Right now, he feels, he has two choices.<p>

Open his suitcase to pull out the bottle of elderflower wine he's brought to celebrate (a bold move, after all he didn't know if she would welcome him with open arms), or ravish her on the spot. He is leaning heavily towards the latter. Her pale blue dress that reminds him of the fashions from before the war, her hair so loosely done up, her bare feet peeping out from under her dress. She has a tan, her cheeks are rosy from the sun's relentless kiss and her eyes sparkle from the tears she's just shed.

She is more beautiful than he remembers.

Her hand is around his wrist then, her fingers softly caressing his skin. He can hardly breathe. He is actually here. This is real. For weeks he's dreamt of this moment. He wrote every letter knowing he might never see her again, but he can feel her. See her. He can smell the lemon and vanilla of her. He can taste the salt of her tears.

She keeps repeating half sentences - he can barely hear her over the sound of his heart pounding, his blood rushing.

"I love you," he blurts out. Can no longer keep it in.

"I love you. I love you. I love you."

He chants it, pulls her close, kisses her hair, anything he can reach, touch. She claws at him, tearing at his jacket, his tie*. She kisses him so hard, any thought of the wine leaves his mind and he takes a deep breath, steps back.

"I love you," he says again.

"And I love you…" She hasn't time to respond; the words come between ridding him of his jacket and nipping at his earlobe.

"I missed you so much," she breathes into his ear, making him shiver. Every nerve stands on edge, as if her touch is bringing him back to life. His fatigue is a low thrum in the back of his mind; all he can think of is her.

Elsie Hughes.

His lover, his bride.

"I missed you…"

"They think you are my gentleman friend…" she unbuttons his shirt, pushes it off his shoulders.

"I don't care what they think," he says vehemently.

"Me neither…"

* * *

><p>She doesn't quite understand how he has her out of her corset that quickly, but she doesn't linger on it. She has craved his presence and now he is here, she isn't going to question it. Not now, not this moment. He isn't as gentle as he was that time in the Grantham Arms. He is marking her now. Sucking down on her collarbone, leaving little red blotches behind. He has his hand on her shoulder, holding her down firmly. His weight feels so good on top of her.<p>

She wraps her leg around his, opening herself up to him. He has grown thinner since the last time she's seen him. She kisses his collarbone, tasting the salty tang of his efforts. Her scent is hovering around them, heady and strong. His fingers are nimble and slick with her wetness, making her breath hitch. She arches up to him when he slowly, carefully sinks inside her.

"I've missed you… I missed this… I missed being inside your…"

He stops then, suddenly. Perhaps he is shy, unused to the words that come with the territory that's been hers for forty years.

She raises her head and whispers into his ear: "Inside my pussy?"

Her naughty words are met with an almighty roar and energetic thrusting that makes the bed springs creak. He pulls at her then, rolls them over so she is on top of him. His palms are on her thighs, her hands on his chest as she balances herself.

"You are beautiful…" he says.

She smiles, bites her lip.

Her hair is coming undone as she rides her lover, her knees digging deeply into the mattress, her eyes closed.

"I used to lie awake at night, thinking of you. Like this."

Their frantic movements are slowing. She lets herself fall forwards and he catches her. They kiss. Their hips still bucking; he holds on to her tightly, his fingers splayed on her lower back. She kisses the dip between his collarbones, the soft skin over the strong breastbone. She licks his nipple and he gasps in surprise, making her smile at him. Not wickedly, but the way a mischievous girl might.

He surprises her then by grabbing hold of her hip and flipping them over. She squeals with delight - it's been so long since they made love, and it's only him that makes her feel this joyous.

His skin is so smooth, his lips so insistent and he is so _real_. This is him, cradled between her thighs. It's his breath slipping over her collarbone. It's his hands holding her hips down as he slides between her labia and then inside of her. He is perfect; he is the only thing on her mind. There are no shopping lists, no appointments, no worries. He is right there, holding on to her as tight as she is holding on to him.

He kisses her neck, keeps plunging into her.

"God…" she moans. "I am so happy you're home…"

* * *

><p>"Are they expecting you back tomorrow?"<p>

"Hmm?" His voice rumbles under her ear, mingling with his steady breathing and the calm thumping of his heartbeat.

"The family, are they expecting you back in London, or in Yorkshire?"

Her throat feels tight as she asks him. She wanted to allow herself to just ride out the exquisite bliss of their lovemaking a little longer, but she couldn't. The voice in the back of her head was too loud to be ignored and now she has asked him.

He is a groggy with sleep and he kisses her cheek a little sloppily. "No… no they are not expecting me tomorrow."

She bites her lip and squeezes his bicep. "When are they expecting you back then?"

He burrows deeper under the covers.

"They are not expecting me back at all. I've retired."

"What do you mean 'you retired'?" She sits up, the sheet falling down her waist. He slides a finger from her navel to the underside of her breast.

"I mean that I never have to leave again."

* * *

><p>* Men always wore three-piece suits, even when they were the 'plainer' ones. No jeans and t-shirt for Charles Carson here...<p> 


	12. Have him like the air I breathe

**A/N:** Sometimes you have to delete fifteen hundred words and start over - because it's the best thing to do. Sometimes about seven hundred find their way back into the chapter. All in all: this chapter has been a long time coming and I apologise for making you wait. As always I am indebted to Dee, for beta-ing. I'm indebted to Kissman who said the right thing at the right moment. Thank you, Onmyside for your support. Thank you everybody for your lovely reviews, your follows, your likes and reblogs.

Alright. On with the show. **Nakey, lovey-dovey goodness for the happy goobers. Very much not safe for work, yo.**

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><p>"I just can't believe you don't have to go back," she says and she lays her head against his shoulder. He leans over and kisses her hair. He loves the smell of lemon and a hint of coconut from her shampoo. There are still traces of vanilla present, but much less than the previous time he was cradled between her legs. She's curled up against him, her arm draped over his chest, the covers pulled up over their waists.<p>

"They were very gracious about it," he says, thinking back on the exchange with Lord Grantham. Who told him he understood. That he was getting on a bit and that the world was changing - not that he liked it. Charles remembers nodding solemnly, thinking that his life changed the moment he allowed Elsie to capture his heart.

She always had it. Since that time she wore a ruby-red satin corset and he cried upon her bosom (she had allowed him to take it off, had been very accommodating and very beautiful, spirited and _exactly what he needed_).

"I'm glad. Are they sending your things later? Or are they expecting you to pick them up?" Her breath tickles his cheek.

"What things?"

"Your things. Your personal effects, so to speak."

"Oh, no. I have everything that's mine in my suitcase." He kisses her hair again, then her cheek. Her skin is endlessly soft under his lips.

"But Charles, that's impossible!"

She looks at him with bright, clear eyes. She looks worried and shocked.

"Why?" He doesn't understand why she is so upset.

"You've worked for them for forty years - give or take. You must have more than your two suits, your shaving kit, a Butler's Book and a Burke's Peerage!"

"Oh, yes I brought those with me, I better send them back, after all they aren't mine to keep."

She shakes her head and wraps her arms around his neck, pulling herself on top of him. "Oh my love… " she says, with a timid little voice, shaking her head slightly.

He shrugs and kisses her. She cups his cheeks, deepens the kiss hungrily. He reciprocates enthusiastically, feeling happy and free with his lover in his arms.

* * *

><p>His muscles are protesting. It's achingly obvious he isn't a young man and making love all through the night and the following day is not on his list of accomplishments. He had given himself completely when he came home and another time halfway through the night, when he was woken up by Elsie's soft kisses and gentle caresses, then morning came with a gentle breeze and the scent of her in his nose.<p>

Discussing his lack of worldly goods has made him think of the cases of wine that are his by rights. He's no idea where they would store them in this little cottage. There's no space for big wooden boxes or long shelves.

He smiles to himself, knowing he'll be very content drinking their elderflower wine and living on love alone. His stomach growls at that and Elsie (_his Elsie, his beautiful lover, his all, his everything_) slides her hand over his chest and pushes herself up a little.

"We'd better feed you."

"You make me sound like an animal in the zoo," he teases her and palms her bum.

"Oh, I am doing no such thing, you daft man. Come. I'll fix us some toast."

Now she is cooking him breakfast using her toaster and electric kettle. She is wearing a long, muslin nightgown that floats around her, accentuating everything he finds so terribly enticing about her (the dip of her waist, the heart-shape of her bottom, the heaviness of her breast seen from the side). Her hair is in a messy plait on her back and she is smiling. He had thought her beautiful before, but that was nothing compared to how exquisite he finds her now. Happiness suits her and it thrills him that he is the one making her so happy.

She has a very clear voice as she is singing a song in a language he doesn't understand. She is so youthful, so much younger than him, though he knows her life has been so much harder. It's astounding how strong she is, he thinks. How well she handles adversity. That through it all she remained a kind-hearted person; a warm and approachable woman.

He is tired, but has never felt more at peace. He made the right decision.

He is right there where he belongs.

* * *

><p>Toast and tea and he is so thankful. He kisses the back of her hand, as if she's a lady. He holds on while he carefully chews and sips, making no noise. She is so captivated by him, she almost forgets to eat herself. He pushes her plate a bit towards her and she bites her lip.<p>

The silence between them is comfortable. There's no need to fill it with words (_my, don't you look strong! aren't you handsome? well, well, what have we here?_), there's no atmosphere filling the room (_will he be mellow? will he be violent?_). Just the sounds of cups being placed back on the table and the crunch of toast being bitten into.

"Now, what would you like to do today?" he asks and she is amazed that this man - this very decent man who lived a most virtuous life - manages to make her blush like a schoolgirl. Her heart beats lightly, quickly now, she cannot help the smile that bursts free.

This is what it's like to be in love, she thinks. This is what might have been all those years ago, but stronger, sweeter, deeper. After all, back then they might have broken this thing, pushed against the boundaries of his servitude and her already vast experience. No, it's absolutely fine the way it is. It's alright.

She gets up, takes their plates and puts them in the sink with their cups. He is behind her and he's hardly wearing anything: a half-open shirt over his vest wth the sleeves rolled up to show his muscular forearms; his tweed trousers. He's barefooted like she is and when she leans back, he catches her.

His hands are warm and strong around her arms, his chest broad against her back and she lets her head drop back against him and he kisses the top of her head, nuzzles her hair.

She cannot remember ever being this happy ever before. There are memories of her childhood (lambing and thunderstorms spent in her mother's arms; her father putting her on his shoulders to see over the wall of the church where the morris dancers practiced, Becky crawling into bed with her on endless summer nights), of course, but none of them give her the feeling of this intense joy.

She turns, puts her arms around his waist, looks up at him.

"Why don't you take me to bed, Mr Carson…" she suggests, still blushing.

"I think I will, Mrs Hughes…" he answers.

Not a tinge of shame colours his voice. She takes a minute step and is enveloped in his embrace. His scent, his heartbeat, his steady deep breathing.

She never knew mornings could be so absolutely perfect.

* * *

><p>There's such delight in watching Charles lower his suspenders and letting his tweeds drop to the floor, followed by his shirt. To see him slip underneath the covers smoothly and to feel his arms around her. He is so gentle with her, so sweet. It's a word she's never before associated with a man, with a man who wants her in this particular way.<p>

And she wants him too. She wants his skin against hers, his hands upon her. She wants his kisses, to wrap herself around him, to squeeze him so close, impossibly close. She launches herself at him, her lips demanding his to play along, her hands pulling at his vest. He is perfect under her hands, understanding immediately what she needs from him. He grasps her nightgown, raises the hem, higher and higher. His hand travels from her knee to the inside of her thigh.

Her hands slip from his sides to under the waistband of his shorts - she squeezes his bum, pulls him closer, lets her legs fall open for him. Everything goes automatically, as if they've been making love - love, love, love - for a very long time. When his little finger slides under the elastic of her knickers, fingering her curls, she shivers.

He pulls them down and she lifts her bottom to help him. The sooner she's naked, the better. But he doesn't help her out of her nightgown, instead he kisses her lips, then her cheek. Down her jawline and her neck. He nips softly at her collarbone and the tender skin of her chest, nuzzling his way down the front of her gown.

When he pulls her even closer, when she feels how hard he is for her, she whimpers.

A silly little sound, so vastly different from the noises she used to make to entice the men, to make sure they would feel they got their money's worth.

There's no need to pretend with Charles. She wonders if she could, if she could fool him and she finds she doesn't want to, doesn't want to play that game that was hers for more decades than she cares to remember. The only man she'll ever find in her bed is him now - forever. The only man who gets to move her, rock her, touch her. It's a quaint idea that after all those years, she has found someone who cares about how she feels.

Who makes it his mission to please her.

And he does.

He pleases her greatly. He makes her shiver. Knows exactly how to make her keen and cry out to heaven. His insisting fingers readying her, his supple lips kissing her sweetly then and roughly after. Her nightgown is bunched up around her waist, the buttons undone and he takes her then, swiftly, carefully at first and increasingly more vigourous.

She arches against him, moans.

There is no place in the world she'd rather be than under him, wrapped around him. Having him inside her - shallow, shallow, deep - and his arms around her makes her feels so wanted, so loved.

Words fall from her lips, naughty words strung into naughty half-sentences* (_oh god, take me… don't stop, for god's sake, don't stop..._) and his hand closes around her buttock.

Languid strokes and burning kisses. Heated words and her nails raking down his back. She is covered by him, his body between her legs and in her arms. She cups his cheeks, kisses his lips, breathes in his breath (peppermint toothpowder and a trace of tea).

When she comes, she sees stars, her muscles contract so tightly, her voice is strangled far back in her throat. She can feel a gushing from her pussy and the erratic pounding of her man before he roars and spills inside her.

Who could have thought this act could be so utterly perfect.

* * *

><p>* Oh dearie me… it's very odd to write Elsie as this naughtydirty talking wench, as much as it might be to read it. Bear with me, guys. Everything that happens, happens for a reason…. same goes for Elsie referring to her vagina as 'pussy': I let it return here because she said it before (though in a different context).


	13. Making the time rhyme

**A/N:** Thank you everybody for your wonderful support. Thank you, Dee, for your help. As always: reviews are very much appreciated.

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><p>Everything is just fine.<p>

He watches her dress - her inverted striptease. Every gesture is a poem to him, every graceful bend like a closing rose. She's so beautiful, radiant. He is, undoubtedly, perfectly happy. It's been a month since he's pushed open the squeaky gate, since she fell into his arms, crying and kissing him.

They spend their time in bed, in the kitchen, in the garden. She tends to her flowers, he mows the lawn. They drink their elderflower wine on the bench against the back of the house, in the shade of the apple tree. Things are easy between them. Comfortable. They squabble over setting the table - because he likes it done _just so_ and she couldn't give a monkey. They sometimes get into heated discussions about the news, about politics. He is conservative and she is less so and it always ends tangled in the sheets.

She makes him toast, pours his tea. He helps her peel vegetables for dinner, pods the peas. Like he used to do when he was a lad still living at home, running round his mother's skirts. Happy golden days of endless summer. His happiness now compares to that. Compares to that carefree feeling and the full attention of a person who loves him completely.

He pulls up the sheet a bit as he watches Elsie pull her shift over her head, her knickers up (he is fascinated by her clothes, by the quick, efficient movements, by the way her soft body is veiled in white cotton).

"Why don't you leave your corset?" he asks and she looks up sharply, startled at his sudden remark.

"I've been wearing a corset since I was sixteen. If I stop wearing one, I'll probably fall apart*," she answers, wrinkles her nose at him.

"I doubt it."

"Don't you like it when I wear one?" She is very serious all of a sudden and he frowns.

"I do. Of course I do. I just think that you might be more comfortable without one and it's only us here at the cottage…" he trails off, unable to think of anything else to say.

She drops her corset back on the chair.

"You are a lovely man, Charles Carson," she says and pops onto the bed beside him.

"Hmm," he is too busy nuzzling her neck to answer.

They forget all about getting dressed and corsets for the next hour.

* * *

><p>They are being everything she never could stand about young people in love: completely oblivious and tremendously gooey. He is feeding her strawberries now, carefully pulled out of his Pimm's with two steady fingers. Stray drops are kissed away swiftly.<p>

She's sixty going on seventeen.

Everything they do ends up being physical together. Even if they don't make love - which they do, frequently - they are touching each other. On rainy evenings they sit on the couch, her back against the armrest, her feet in his lap. On sunny afternoons they take a stroll over the hills, arm in arm.

She's been going barefoot as much as she possibly can, savouring the freedom from tightly laced up boots and too-high heels. She has gotten back into the swing of cooking for more than one and she loves to treat him to his favourites. She's baked more apple pies in these four weeks than she has in the previous decade.

"You've a drop…" he murmurs and kisses it away like before.

As his lips leave the corner of her mouth, she can hear a lorry pull up in front of the cottage. They frown at each other.

"Who can that be?" he asks and she shrugs.

"Hellooooo!" a voice calls then and they stand up automatically. Elsie checks her dress, does up a button or two.

"Mr Carson?"

Two lads from the village stand in front of their father's lorry.

"Lord Grantham's sent us wi' some of your things," the younger one says.

The elder one nods, his cigarette dangling in the corner of his mouth. He lifts his cap for Elsie. "Mrs Hughes."

"What things?" Charles asks, obviously flabbergasted.

"There's about twenty crates of wine and a right comfortable chair and some other bits and bobs. Do you want us to bring it all in the 'ouse?"

Charles doesn't say anything, so Elsie takes matters in her own hands. "Yes, please."

She turns to her man. "What is going on?"

He shakes his head, gestures into the void.

"Best make them something to eat and a pot of strong tea. And maybe something for the road. They must have started at the crack of dawn!" She bustles inside, leaving Charles standing on the lawn.

The boys bring in heavy crates of wine, the chair, a basket with what looks like ledgers and journals - she directs them like a housekeeper would a flock of hallboys. They listen respectfully, do as they're told. When they're done she offers them sandwiches, cheese, fruit. She pours tea, chats to the boys. She knows their father - a previous life, a different life. She praises their hard work, gives them each a little parcel of more sandwiches and slices of Madeira cake wrapped in greaseproof paper. She asks them to give her compliments to their father and to drive carefully.

* * *

><p>He is so angry. He doesn't want to be, has told himself that it would never come between them, but she is inside, with those two boys - young enough to be… And for the first time since that fateful day he walked her home, carrying her shopping basket, his mind is racing around all those questions he successfully silenced before.<p>

When he grabs a stray branch from the ground, a thorn pierces his skin. He lets out a grunt, sucks on his thumb. The metallic taste of blood makes him spit on the ground without thinking. She knows those lads, he thinks. She knows their father. Not like she knows Fred or the green grocer in the village. No. She knows that man intimately. Like she probably knows a lot of men. More men than he wants to imagine, but his mind is filling the townhall with more and more bachelors and married men.

He feels wretched. His heart is pounding, but not the way it did for her, when he was back in Yorkshire, or in London when the longing became unbearable. Bile rises and he swallows hard, swallows it away, listens to sounds from the house. She isn't laughing, at least. But she is bustling and asking if they want seconds. When the boys leave, he watches them from the garden, sees how she waves them off.

* * *

><p>Everything was fine until that lorry pulled up to the house. But he isn't talking to her now. They have dinner in silence, wash the dishes together as is their custom and he doesn't accidentally-on-purpose touch her wrist. He doesn't palm her bum when he reaches to put the glasses on the shelf over the sink.<p>

He goes up to bed without as much as a 'good night' and it's the first time they've not gone up together.

When she enters their room, he is facing away from the door and it's only the fading twilight that lights her way through the room. She undresses quickly, shyly, suddenly ashamed of her nakedness. She pulls her nightgown over her head, buttons it up to the neck. When she settles into bed, he turns around again and scoots away from her.

He's not been in a mood before and she can feel the anger emanating from his body.

She doesn't understand why he is upset. She tentatively reaches out to touch his shoulder and he pulls back, as if he's bitten, burnt.

"Whatever is the matter with you?" she finally asks, hurt and frustrated.

"Nothing."

He barks instead of speaks and Elsie closes her eyes, heaves a heavy sigh. 'Nothing' always means 'something' and it's not going to be easy to pry what it is from this man who managed to close himself off from actual feeling for forty years. He knows how to remain quiet.

He doesn't know how to stay silent though, for she hears it in the way he pulls up the sheet, scoots even farther away. He sniffles violently. She sits up, wraps her arms around her pulled up knees.

"There must be something if you're acting like this."

"_Acting like this?_" he mimics her; mocks her.

"Alright. You're angry, there's no need to resort to such childish behaviour."

He doesn't say anything and where his parroting hurt, his silence evokes a slow-burning fury she's not felt in a long time.

* * *

><p>* Corsets. There's a lot of myths to debunk about them, because we're becoming increasingly further removed from them being a common foundation garment worn by all women. A corset is worn to support the breasts and to aid in posture. Secondary use is to pull and tuck you in. Elsie has been wearing corsets since she was sixteen. Which means that her core muscles may not be very strong. Now, Elsie has been working in a profession that mostly had her on her back and she probably trained her abs quite well without knowing, but the <em>idea<em> that she might snap in half could be a persistent one. She won't. Just so you know. I am not going to torture my poor Elsie, things are hard enough as they are right now.


	14. Things don't seem the same

**A/N: **Today in 'semi-professional fanfiction-writing class': serious emotional upheaval through ugly fighting.

_TW for strong language in emotional situations. **Not for the fragile.** Dialogue-heavy._ Thank you, Dee. I'm forever in your debt.

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><p>The air is charged around them. One remark and things will explode. She can feel it coursing through her, the startings of a good fight (and she is enough of her father's daughter to somehow feel slightly exhilarated by it). Years it's been, decades even. The only one she could have a really good fight with was her mother. She remembers the one on her last night home - forty-five years ago. Standing across from each other, yelling their arguments louder and louder. "He loves me!" "You're a child!" "Maggie from the next farm was married last year!" "I don't care!" "I hate you!"<p>

The last thing she had said to her mother - in person - was 'I hate you'. The last thing she had written was 'I'll look after Becky'.

Now she is in bed, curled into herself, her lover next to her. He is fuming. It won't be long now. She knows him well enough by now: his little frustrations of being unable to work the toaster, about Fred calling him 'Mr Hughes'. His preoccupation with setting the table with all the crockery she has.

She pushes down the sheet - a little forcefully - and starts unbuttoning her nightgown. There's no need to be cooped up in the stifling heat of their small bedroom. The window is closed and she swings her legs over the edge of the bed to get up and open it.

"Don't even think about it," he says.

"This is my cottage and I shall do as I please," she counters.

"Well, isn't that just the problem."

"I don't see how that is a problem."

He is breathing hard already, she can feel him holding back.

"No. _You_ wouldn't."

"And who would, pray tell?" She is gripping the sheet in her fist, her nails digging into the palm of her hand through the freshly laundered cotton.

"Any _respectable_ person would."

Respectable.

Is that what this is all about? About her past? Because she is respectable now - unless you count the fact that she is living in sin with this broad-chested, narrow-minded man.

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me."

"I'm not sure I did. Did you just say that I am not respectable?" Her hands are cold now, her nostrils already flaring.

"I did not say that."

He is infuriating. "But that is what you meant."

"If you like."

"No, I bloody well don't like, Charles Carson and if you don't want to be here, you can get the hell out!"

She jumps from the bed, unable to keep still. He is sitting up now, throwing the sheets off too.

"You are getting hysterical," he says in that infuriating condescending way he has.

"You wouldn't recognise actual hysteria if it hit you over the head with a cast-iron skillet. You've hardly an emotional bone in your body."

The words come easy, without thinking. He is looking at her through narrowed eyes.

"You should count yourself lucky I wanted to be with the likes of you!" it comes out and she has to take a step backwards to keep her balance.

"The likes of me? The likes of me were good enough for you forty years ago, when you came crying to me about that little bitch, Alice. I was good enough for you to unburden yourself to. You wept on my bosom; I can still see you, red-eyed and hiccuping."

He is silent now and she tilts her head. Observes him. He is not done yet. She can see the spark in his eyes; the way his fists clench and unclench.

"You were there, Mrs Hughes." There's a scornful smile playing on his lips.

"I was. I was there and I remained there for thirty-nine more years and you never returned to me. You never came for a visit, casual or otherwise. Why not, Charles? Why did you not come back to me?"

The anger she felt not a minute earlier vanishes like smoke. She feels deflated. Hurt beyond measure. She cannot bear to look at him, turns around, bites her lip.

There's no answer. Only unsteady breathing. She is already reaching for the doorknob when he speaks:

"I couldn't. I couldn't think of you with those men…"

"What do you mean?"

"The thought of you, of others, of… of them defiling you…"

"As opposed to you defiling me?"

It's a mean thing to say. Below the belt. She's never been so happy, never felt that kind of satisfaction before. She's been wrapped up in his tenderness and his love and she's been so perfectly content, like she'd never been before.

"I suppose."

His voice is small and thick and she finally turns around to find him pressing his handkerchief against his eyes. He is crying.

"Is that what this is all about? About me having been with other men? Because I think that was known even before we…"

She wants to say 'fell in love', but she can't, not know.

He shrugs.

"You were awfully chummy with those lads," he says, avoiding her eyes.

"They were lads, boys. Just out of their short trousers. They were only being polite. And hungry, as growing boys always are." She explains, but he shakes his head.

"You told them to give your best to their father."

"Well, yes. It's his van after all."

"You knew him, didn't you."

So accusatory. Almost menacingly said.

"I did. He was a nice man. Strong arms, well, he would have, being a mover."

Oil on the flames. A tickle under the skin. The blood from under your fingernails. If that's how he wants to play it, that's what he'll get. The coiling of her anger fuels her words.

"You're sure neither of those boys were yours?" he says then.

She doesn't understand how he manages to knock the wind from her sails like that.

"Yes, of course I'm sure."

"You've put them all up at the workhouse, have you? Orphanages filled with little Hughesies?"

She swallows. Shakes her head. "No. Not even one. Not all women are innocent to how the body works. How to prevent conception is a commonplace bit of knowledge. And then there's the monthly check-up from the doctor. Who makes sure you're not a syphilis-ridden carcass by the time you're thirty-three."

She is speaking clearly and forcefully through her burning throat. All her life she managed to avoid the main hazards of her job - through knowledge and good fortune - and he dares to slap her in the face with that?

"No, I didn't contract the green sickness* perhaps, but I didn't spread my legs for sailors bringing their diseases and vermin, either. I usually did it for heartbroken lads."

_Like you. _

_And if you had come back to me, if you had dared, if you could have seen past the exterior of jade-green and ruby-red satin corsets and ruffled knickers, I wouldn't have needed to push that contraption* up my fanny seven or eight times a night. We could have had something special. Something we've had this past month, but while we were still young and beautiful. _

She is trembling. She holds her breath. Waits for his response that doesn't come. His mouth is a thin, hard line. He gets out of the bed, goes to their shared wardrobe and lifts his suitcase from the top. He opens the door, sets the case down, opens it and puts his few clothes in it.

"What are you doing?"

"You just told me that if I didn't like it, I should get out. So I'm leaving."

* * *

><p>* The Green Sickness, aka The disease of virgins - hypochromic anemia - was thought to be a disease of celibate maidens and the superstition clung to that false diagnosis a long time. In 1895 a study showed it was usually brought on by poor diet and heavy menstrual flow - something a maiden could well be burdened with, but had nothing to do with celibacy. Nevertheless, in literature and common speech. I don't think you hear much of it nowadays.<p>

* A douche. Never. Ever. Do. This; Do. Not. Put. Anything. Up. Your. Fanny. To. Clean. It. Especially. Not. The. Concoctions. Of. The. Victorian/Edwardian. Age. Leave. Your. Fanny. Alone. (please visit the planned parenthood website (or similar) for up-to-date advice on how to prevent pregnancy and STIs) (ps. in the UK a fanny is a vagina, in the US a fanny is a butt. The not pushing anything acidic up there stands for both, I'd say)


	15. In the silence I can hear their breaking

A/N: Thank you so much, everybody, for your kind support. You are so lovely, I just can't even. As has become the custom: thank you, Dee, for everything. Really, this fic is much more a collaboration than a solo project. And as always: reviews are very much appreciated!

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><p>She finds her insides feel both heavy and hollow. She watches him lay his shirts (neatly ironed by her) on top of his pressed trousers.<p>

"You're no different to the others then," she says. She feels nauseated, bile is rising in her throat and she turns on her heel, opens the door with such force it slams into the wall. She races to the bathroom, only just managing to reach the toilet in time.

She is retching and vomiting; it's the first time she's ever had such a violent reaction to a fight. She throws up again, bitter and sour. Hot tears run down her cheeks. It's a more than sobering thought that this man she loves - truly loves - used her in the same way all those men who paid for it did. That what she thought was between them was only his desire for her body.

She finds it hard to believe at first, knows herself to be a good reader of circumstances, but is reminded of that old saying about rose-tinted glasses. Never in her life had she been so happy and it has clouded her judgment. Charles Carson is just the same as the others. He is broader. Softer. Infinitely easier to love. But he only sees her as a retired whore, someone he could get his jollies on with. Without being judged or being seen.

Really, it's not like that, she tells herself as she reaches for some toilet paper to wipe her mouth. He is a good man… He has to be. I'm no fifteen-year-old lass with stars in my eyes and a rebellious nature. I'm a mature woman. I can smell a cad a mile off.

She cries, her body convulsing with hot anger and chilling heartache.

* * *

><p>He doesn't like it when he is not in control. There wasn't anything to control before. He came to her, empty, tired, broken and with that first kiss she healed him. She gave him a side of the bed, her soft, supple body, her cheese-and-pickle sandwiches and custard tarts she bought in the village. He drank her elderflower wine, sweet and perfumed, heady and thick. He opened his heart to her, let her in. He was happy.<p>

Two boys. One remark.

He had not forgotten. He knew who she was and he told himself it didn't matter. She is nothing like that anymore. He is the only one she turns to now. The only one she cradles against her breast (her beautiful body, silken and smooth, warm and accommodating - he's only ever whole when he is near enough to touch her, when she allows him to sink into her and when she holds him through the night, when demons come and his old life sneaks up on him; years of service behind him with nothing more than a 'thank you' and a handshake).

"Give my compliments to your father."

Two boys. Their father. He knows the man. Sat behind him in church. Behind his wife.

He too would prefer the loveliness of Elsie. And she has never been anything but frank about her past. He knows how she came to do it and why she stayed. How her boyfriend left her when he was summoned back to the family farm and how she couldn't go with him after having given Joe her youth and her virtue.

How a young girl has only one thing to sell, only one way to keep herself from the workhouse. And she did.

He can hear her in the bathroom as he closes his suitcase and he bows his head in shame.

He knew.

He knew well enough.

He found her one night when he couldn't anymore, when there was only one thing he could think of to get rid of the memory of the painful loss of Alice and she was there - in that line-up. She was as far removed from Alice as could be. Dark-haired, blue-eyed perfection. With her ruby-red corset and confident air. Her kindness. And she had taken him to her room, had taken off her shoes and given him a moment to undress.

She had opened her arms to him, kissed him. Her kiss was warmer, gentler, more tender than any of Alice's had ever been and - oh irony - this beautiful girl was being paid to be with him. Alice was on his mind, but her memory was already being wiped away by the scent of vanilla; exotic and sweet.

Elsie had helped him take off her corset (she had shown him where to place his hands, how to push and pull, how to carefully lay it on the foot end of the bed and he still remembers his careful touch, his fingers on the soft skin exposed above her the neckline of her shift) and had held him to her. He was not used to such kindness and he had wept. He had cried like he hadn't since he was a very young boy. She had stroked his hair, kissed it.

Kissed away the pain. And they had not even… well.

In the moment she pulled the satin covers over them and told him to rest, he had fallen in love with her.

* * *

><p>His hand is on her shoulder and she is too tired to shake it off. She can hear his knees click when he kneels beside her and holds out a glass of water. She rinses her mouth, spits it into the toilet. Pulls the cord. Watches the water swirl around.<p>

She pushes herself up, wipes away her tears.

He doesn't look at her when he gets up again, but hands her a towel. She takes it from him, buries her face in it for a moment. She smells the lemon soap the laundry uses. She is still cold, but the acute anger has subsided. There's still the emptiness and the disbelief, but she's calmed down and there's comfort in Charles's presence in the small bathroom.

But that is not what she wants - she doesn't want him to be of comfort, not if he is leaving, not if he is going to hurt her more.

When she lowers the towel she finds him standing close; his face is oddly blotchy. He opens his mouth once, twice, but he doesn't speak. She nods, gives him a half-hearted shrug.

"I'm sorry," he says and she blinks.

"I'm sorry…" he says again and she clenches her fist so tightly, she can feel her nails digging into her palm.

"What are you sorry for?" she asks, her voice hoarse from crying.

"What do you mean?"

"What is it that you are apologising for?"

"For my behaviour. For getting angry. For... "

"For what?"

His jaw tightens as he swallows hard, pulls up his shoulders. He is so tense. The fight has affected him as much as it has her and her heart swells at the thought.

He is not going anywhere. It was just his knee-jerk reaction. Fight or flight.

Or both.

"Let's go into the other room," she offers and he nods stiffly, follows her. Her bare feet on the wooden floors, her nightgown billowing around her. Like any other evening.

* * *

><p>They sit at the kitchen table, side by side, her hand in his.<p>

"Shall I open the window?" she finally asks and he nods.

"Alright."

She gets up, reluctant to let him go. The light of the moon falls upon her and he sees her figure through the sheer fabric of her nightgown. The curve of her breasts, the dip of her waist. Her features - nose, lips, eyelashes, are suddenly in stark contrast with the darkness surrounding her and he thinks that this is what an angel would look like.

She is only one who could save him from himself. And he stifles a sob that wells up. She turns to him sharply.

"What is it?" she asks, her voice quiet and he can hear the huskiness left behind from her crying and vomiting earlier.

He shakes his head.

"You said you were sorry, for getting so angry, but you weren't quite finished. Are you sorry for more?"

She has come to stand in front of him, between his legs and he lays his hands on her hips, pulling her closer. She wraps her arms around him and he kisses her belly through the cotton. She is soft and pliant and he rubs his face against her, trying to think of an answer.


	16. It has to be for you to grow

**A/N:** Thank you everybody for your lovely reviews and your amazing support. To all my guest reviewers: thank you so much - I hope you all know how much I appreciate your comments, reviews and compliments, because I really, really do. Dee, thank you for talking me through my difficult choices. And for all the grammar and punctuation and such.

* * *

><p>Having him wrapped around her, nuzzling her, is washing away the last of her anger. The hurt is still there, but it's not so acute. She recognises that he is in much more pain than she is. His hair is thick and soft between her fingers and the air is heavy with unspoken words.<p>

Charles sighs deeply.

"I'm so sorry, Elsie," his voice is muffled by her nightgown.

"I know…" She kisses the crown of his head. "So you said."

"I never expected someone from Downton to turn up here."

"Neither did I."

He looks up now. "You didn't think I would come back to you?"

"No. I hoped you'd come. Dreamed you would. And your coming here has been a little miracle. You've made me so happy." She kisses his brow.

"But you didn't expect it?"

"No. You hadn't visited me for decades after we first met, I certainly didn't think you would -"

"I know," Charles interrupts. "I know. And I am so sorry."

"Why didn't you? It can't have been what I did to make a living... Or not solely that."

He leans back and looks up at her.

"I don't know. Or, I mean... I know now, but I didn't know then."

He caresses her hip, runs the back of his fingers down her bottom as if he is reacquainting himself with her form. She is quiet, waits for him to collect his thoughts.

"Alice - that little bitch, as you called her -" Elsie is glad the darkness hides her blush, "had grabbed my heart. Or my affection at least and when she left me for my best friend, it broke me..."

His hand runs from her bum back to her side.

"I was in such pain, I was so lost. I held it in, but everything inside me screamed. If I had been a boy still, I would have cried out for my mother."

Elsie leans in a bit to kiss his brow and threads her fingers in his hair again.

"I ended up in The Grantham Arms, thinking the touch of another girl might make me forget my broken heart. You were there." He looks away and his voice is a mere whisper: "And you were so very beautiful." He takes a deep breath and looks up again. "All the other girls paled in comparison. Then we talked and I was so surprised by how smart you were, how intelligent. How you held your own. I never expected that from a..."

"A prostitute? You didn't think we could be critically thinking individuals?"

He bends his head again. "I'm sorry. It's… I don't think that now. I never thought it after... "

She nods then. "I know… I am sorry I got defensive."

His hand travels to the underside of her breast and she gently takes his hand and pushes it away. It's not the right moment for _that_.

"Ten minutes with you felt the same as weeks with Alice. After that hour was up, I went away with a restored heart, but I knew I couldn't go back."

"Why?" Her voice is soft.

"I couldn't risk it. You not feeling that way about me. It would have broken me. It felt safer to admire you from afar. To see you in church, in the Post Office."

She nods and he pulls her close again.

"But I did feel that way about you..." she whispers and he bows his head against her.

"I was a fool. A damned fool."

She is not contesting it. Silence stretches between them; half a minute passes, maybe more.

"You were so afraid that it kept you away from me," she finally says. "And because of that, you're sorry?"

"I am..."

She kisses him then.

"It's the past..." she says and takes a small step backwards so he can get up from the chair. "Lets go back to bed."

* * *

><p>They lie side by side, her hand in his. The air around them is still stifling - outside a storm is brewing. Their own seems to have died down. It's just a ripple on the pond now.<p>

"Things could have been different if I had not been such a coward."

She squeezes his hand softly. "You weren't a coward. You were just protecting yourself."

Her R's are rolling more now; the syllables are more clipped. Her voice is still broken from earlier.

"Chances like that don't come by often, Elsie…" He sighs. He needs her to know how sorry he is. Needs to tell her that she could have been his happiness. "I've regretted it ever since."

"You took a different road, Charles. You were very much respected as Butler to the Earl and Countess," she counters.

"I could have had a different, happier life. Lived for myself instead of others. I could have been my own master."

She is turns her head a little. She is so very beautiful to him. He can see their unborn children in her eyes. He could have daughters, like Lord Grantham. He could have had a son. A family to work for, to come home to. To fill that void that's been in his heart for so many years. He's tried to teach the boys that were in his care, but it has not been the same. Or at least he doesn't think it has.

He runs his thumb over Elsie's knuckles. Her skin is so soft against his.

He remembers how soft she was then.

How warm and kind. How perfectly she fitted against him. How the dips and curves of her body gave him solace. He closes his eyes against the overwhelming images that flood his mind. Her body around his and him spilling inside her. Her telling him of her suspicions with a mysterious smile. Elsie soft and heavy with his child. He can see her consoling their child and mending little stockings. Presiding over a table that's set for many. She would be strict and fair at times, sweet and gentle at others.

A hot tear slides from his eye into his sideburns.

* * *

><p>"Whatever's the matter?"<p>

She's not seen him cry in decades and it startles her. She watches him wipe away the tears that are still falling from behind closed lids.

He shakes his head.

"Tell me," she urges him.

"Have you never wanted it?" he asks.

"What?"

"A life away from… I don't know... From what you had?"

She ponders on that. "Well, it wasn't all fun and games. There were times I absolutely despaired, but what other life would there have been for me?"

He turns around so quick, the bed shakes with the impact and he pulls her to him, burying his face in the soft dip between shoulder and breast.

"With me. A life with me… with _everything_."

"Oh Charles…" She cups his cheek, kisses his temple.

"You mean you never thought about it? Never wanted it? A home, a husband? A family?"

"Not really. I mean… Oh, I thought about it sometimes, when I was in my early thirties and saw some of the other girls being whisked away by their regulars. And then when I met them again, they were as downtrodden as they'd been at the Grantham Arms. Only they'd have a squealing babe to look after, or two. Or more. Snotty noses to wipe. A demanding husband to please and satisfy."

He is very quiet then. Frowns.

"What is it?"

"You don't like children?" he asks. He sounds very solemn, worried even.

"Oh, I like them well enough, but I never really longed for one of my own." She scoffs. "You must know that having a baby would have been the end of me. Like you said: an orphanage for the child or the workhouse for the pair of us."

"I'd have married you, you know."

His promise silences her. She can see it in his face, his eyes: he is a man who would be a good father. A very good father. A kind, respectful, caring one; happy to teach and make peace. One who would make something of Christmas and birthdays. He would have wanted to celebrate Christmas, she thinks. Presents and good food and worship in church.

"Yes. I thought you would have. But you'd have always wondered if the child was yours."

She had already been with three men that night when Charles picked her out of that line up . After him came another one. And Charles… Charles never actually…

"It wouldn't have mattered. I would have loved your child like it was my own and I would have known the next one was mine."

She smiles a little at that. Adding to a non-existent family that will never be. And she is happy it won't be. She doesn't want anyone who needs her in that way. Who would be on her mind constantly, vying for affection and attention with Charles. She may have wanted it back then - she really wasn't so different from the other girls when she was still young.

She might have liked the safety of a husband and his steady job. Maybe nurturing a child would have given her satisfaction. Perhaps she would have found joy in seeing her husband's eyes in her sons and daughters; little quirks from them both reflected in them. Theirs would have been tall, clever children, she thinks and she wipes away the last of Charles's tears.

"Yes. It would have been yours," she replies to his earlier remark. "And I would have been proud."


End file.
